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PHiEDON: 



':J%* . 



OF, 




*$» A DIALOGUE ON THE 

IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 

BY PLATO. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL GREEK BY MADAM DACIER. 



NOTES AND EMENDATIONS. 

TO WHICH IS PREFIXED 

THE LIFE OF THE AUTHOR, BY FENELON, 



ARCHBISHOP OF CAMBRAT. 



Plato thou reason' st well, 
Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, 
This longing after immortality ? 
Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror 
Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul 
Back on herself, and startles at destruction; 
'Tis the divinity that stirs within us ; 
'Tis heaven itself that points out an hereafter, 



And intimates eternity to man. 



JLddison's Caio. 



Dr. Roger Ascham, on a visit to the family of the Marquis of Dorset, at 
his seat at Broadgate, found on his arrival that Lady- Jane Grey was alone, 
the rest of the family being engaged in a hunting party : to his great sur- 
prise he found her reading the Phaedon of Plato. She observed to him that 
the sport which her friends were enjoying, was but a shadow compared with 
the pleasure she received from this sublime author. Miss JLikin. 



FIRST AMERICAN, FROM THE RARE LONDON EDITION. 

NEW- YORK : 

PUBLISHED BY W. GOWAN, 121 CHATHAM-STREET. 
1833. /L 



^^S^ 



v 




[ Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1S33, by William 
Gowan, in the Office of the United States for the Southern District of 
New- York. ] 



W 

I 



NEW-YORK : 

WILLIAM PEARSON, PRINTER ; 

NO. 60 CLIFF-STREET, 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



The scarcity of the work, the importance of the 
subject, and the celebrity of the author, who while 
alive procured from his countrymen universal admi- 
ration ; and after his death, was regarded almost as a 
god. These united reasons seem sufficiently to war- 
rant the publication of the sublime Phaedon of Plato 
for the first time in the Western World. What plea- 
sure would it have given him to know that his works 
would be read with pleasure and admiration by the 
citizens of that happy republic beyond the straits of 
Hercules, concerning which he wrote so enthusiasti- 
cally and beautifully, almost with prophetic knowledge; 
the blessings of which, although he might be anxious 
they should exist, yet he never could suppose that they 
were to be realized at least two thousand years after 
his death, and five thousand miles distant from his 
Academy. 



THE 



LIFE OF PLATO 



Plato, the sublimity of whose doctrine has 
procured him the appellation of the Divine, was 
born in the eighty-eighth Olympiad. He was 
descended from one of the most illustrious fami- 
lies in Athens ; by his father, whose name was 
Aristo, he was descended of Codrus ; and by his 
mother, Perictione, of Solon. 

As to himself, his name was at first Aristocles ; 
but being tall and robust, and especially, as he 
had a large forehead and broad shoulders, he 
was afterwards named Plato, (a) by which he was 
afterwards distinguished. 

It is said, that, whilst yet in his cradle, bees 
shed honey on his lips ; which was considered as 
a presage of that astonishing eloquence, by which 
he afterwards distinguished himself above all the 
Greeks. 



b LIFE OF PLATO. 

During his youth, poetry was his favourite 
study ; and he then composed two tragedies and 
several elegies, all of which, when he resolved to 
devote himself to philosophy, he threw into the 
fire. 

When his father presented him to Socrates to 
form his mind, he was twenty years of age. The 
night prior to this Socrates had a dream, in 
which he seemed to have in his bosom a young 
swan, \vhich, when the feathers were come upon 
it, displayed its wings ; and, singing with inex- 
pressible sweetness, with intrepid flight raised it- 
self to the highest regions of the air. That phi- 
losopher did not doubt but it referred to Plato, to 
whom he applied it ; considering it as a presage 
of .that unbounded fame which his pupil was 
destined one day to enjoy. 

He adhered inviolably to Socrates while the 
latter lived 5 but after his death he attached him- 
self to Cratylus, who followed the opinions of 
Heraclitus, and to Hermogenes, who entertained 
those of Parmenides. (b) 

At the age of twenty-eight, he, with the other 
followers of Socrates, went to Megara, to study 
under Euclid ;(c) he next went to Cyrene, where 
he studied mathematics under Theodorus ; from 



LIFE OF PLATO. 



that place he passed into Italy, to hear the les- 
sons of Philolaus, Archytas of Tarentum, and 
Euritus, the three famous Pythagoreans of that 
time. Not contented with all he could learn from 
these great masters, he travelled into Egypt, to 
receive the instructions of the doctors and priests 
of that country ; and he had formed the design of 
going to India also, but was prevented by the 
wars by which Asia was at that time convulsed. 

Upon his return to Athens (d) after all his tra- 
vels, he settled in a quarter called the Academy, \/ 
an unwholesome place, which he purposely chose 
as a necessary corrective to that overgrown state 
of body, with good health, which he then possess- 
ed. The remedy had the desired effect ; for he 
there had a quartan ague, which lasted a year 
and a half; but by temperance and proper regi- 
men he managed so well that he recovered from 
that fever, which confirmed his health and 
strengthened his constitution. 

On three different occasions he served as a 
soldier : the first time at Tanagra, the second at 
Corinth, and the third at Delos, in which last ex- 
pedition his party was victorious. He was three 
times in Sicily also; on the first occasion he was 
. induced by curiosity to visit that island, that he 



8 LIFE OF PLATO. 

might see the volcano of Mount ^Etna ; he was 
then forty years of age. He appeared at this 
time at the court of Dionysius the elder, tyrant 
of Sicily, who had expressed a desire to see him. 

The freedom with which Plato spoke against 
tyranny would have cost him his life, had it not 
been for the good offices of Dion and Aristomenes. 
Dionysius put him, notwithstanding, into the 
hands of the Lacedaemonian ambassador Polides, 
to whom he gave orders to sell him for a slave ; 
by this ambassador he was brought to Egina, 
where he was sold. There was in Egina a law 
by which all Athenians were prohibited, on pain 
of death, from coming into that island. Under 
pretence of enforcing this law, one Charmander 
accused him as worthy of being put to death ; but 
some having alleged that the law was made 
against men, and not against philosophers, it was 
thought fit to profit by the distinction, and, ac- 
cordingly, to sell him. Happily for him, Anni- 
ceris of Cyrene, who was then at Egina y bought 
him for twenty minae ; sent him back to Athens, 
and thus restored him to his friends. 

Polides, the Lacedaemonian who first sold him, 
was defeated by Chabrias and afterwards perish - 
ed by sea, as a punishment for what he had made 



LIFE OF PLATO, 9 

\ 

the philosopher Plato suffer, as, it was pretended, • 
a demon had declared to himself. 

Dionysius the elder, knowing that he had re- 
turned to Athens, and fearing lest he should 
avenge himself by aspersing his character, con- 
descended to write to him, and, in some measure, 
to beg his pardon. Plato, in his answer, assured 
him that he might keep himself perfectly at ease 
on that head ; for that philosophy gave him too 
much employment to leave him any time to think 
of him. Some of his enemies having reproached 
him for having been abandoned by the tyrant 
Dionysius, " It is not," said he, "Dionysius that 
has abandoned Plato; it is Plato who has aban- 
doned Dionysius." 

He went a second time into Sicily, in the reign 
of Dionysius the younger, in the hope of induc- 
ing that tyrant to restore their liberty to his fel- 
low-citizens, or, at least to govern his subjects 
with mildness ; but seeing that the tyrant, so far 
from profiting by his lessons, had banished Dion, 
and was continuing to exercise the same despo- 
tism as his father had done, he returned to 
Athens after a stay of four months, notwithstand- 
ing the urgency of the tyrant, who paid him every 
2* 



10 LIFE OF PLATO. 

attention, and who exerted himself to the utmost 
to detain him. 

He returned to the tyrant of Syracuse a third 
time, urging him to permit the return of Dion, 
and pressing him to divest himself of the sove- 
reign power ; but as Dionysitis, after granting his 
request, failed in carrying it into effect, he re- 
proached him with breaking his word, and irri- 
tated him to such a degree that he was in danger 
of his life, which he might have perhaps lost, had 
not Archytas of Tarentum sent an ambassador 
with a ship for the express purpose of redemand- 
ing him from the tyrant. At the request of Archy- 
tas, Dionysius not only permitted him to return, 
but furnished the vessel with all provisions ne- 
cessary for the voyage. 

Plato now set off for Athens, with the resolu- 
tion never again to leave it. He was received 
there with uncommon marks of distinction ; but 
though strongly urged to take a share in the go- 
vernment, he refused it, thinking it impossible to 
do any good in it amid the general depravation 
of manners which then prevailed. 

But nothing is a stronger proof of the high esti- 
mation in which he was held in Greece, than 



LIFE OF PLATO. 11 

what happened to him at the Olympic games. 
He was received as a god descended from hea- 
ven ; and all the different nations of Greece, 
though ever eager to gaze upon spectacles, and 
though the magnificence of the Olympic games 
had drawn them together from every quarter, left 
the chariot-races and the combats of the Athlete 
to pay their undivided attention to Plato, and to 
express the pleasure which they felt on seeing a 
man whom they had heard utter so many won* 
derful things. 

He spent his life in celibacy, observed the 
strictest rules of decorum, and never transgressed 
the laws of continence. Such was his self-com- 
mand, that even in his youth he was never ob- 
served to laugh immoderately; and so complete- 
ly had he the mastery over his passions, that he 
was never observed to be angry. Connected with 
this, is the account given us of a young man who 
had been brought up with him ; this youth hav- 
ing been afterwards brought home by his parents, 
was one day surprised at seeing his father in a 
rage, and could not refrain remarking, "that he 
had never seen any thing like this in Plato's 
house."' It never happened but once, that he 
was a little irritated against one of his slaves, who 



12 LIFE OF PLATO. 

had committed a considerable fault; he made 
him be corrected by another, saying, that " as 
he was a little angry, he himself was not in a 
capacity to punish him." 

Though he was naturally of a melancholy and 
studious turn of mind, as we are informed by 
Aristotle, (e) he was possessed of affability and a 
certain degree of pleasantry, and amused him- 
self on some occasions with innocent railleries. 
He sometimes advised Xenocrates and Dion, 
whose characters he thought too much tinctured 
with severity, "to sacrifice to the Graces," in 
order to become more gentle and affable. 

He had several scholars, of whom the most dis- 
tinguished were Speusippus, his nephew, by Poto- 
na his sister, who had marred Eurimedon 5 Xeno- 
crates of Chalcedon, and the celebrated Aristotle. 
It is alleged that Theophrastus also was among 
the number of his auditors, and that Demosthenes 
always considered him as his master. This last, 
indeed, having taken sanctuary to save himself 
from the hands of Antipater, when Archias, whom 
Antipater had sent to seize him, promised him his 
life to induce him to leave his asylum ; " Forbid 
it, Heaven! " said he, " that, after hearing Xeno- 
crates and Plato on the immortality of the soul, I 



LIFE OF PLATO. 13 

should prefer a shameful life to an honourable 
death." 

Two women likewise have been reckoned 
among the number of his disciples. The one 
was Lasthenia of Mantinea, and the other Axio* 
thea of Phlysia, both of whom used to dress like 
men, as more suited to the dignity of philosophy? 
which they professed. 

So highly did he value geometry, and so iie-- 
cessary did he deem it to philosophy, that he 
caused this inscription to be written on the en^ 
trance into the academy : "Let no one enter here 
who is not conversant in geometry." 

All the works of Plato, (except his letters, of 
which twelve only are now extant,) are in the 
form of dialogues. These dialogues may be 
divided into three kinds : those in which he re- 
futes the sophists ; others, in which the instruc- 
tion of youth is his object; and the third kind 
consists of those which are adapted to persons 
arrived at maturity* There is still another dis- 
tinction to be made in these dialogues ; for all 
that Plato says in his own character, in his let- 
ters, in his books concerning laws, and in his 
Epinomis, he delivers as his own real and proper 
doctrine ; but what he delivers under borrowed 



14 LIFE OF ?LATO« 

names, as that of Socrates, Timaeus, Parmenideg, 
or Zeno, he gives as probable only, without war- 
ranting the truth of what is affirmed. 

What is said in the character of Socrates, how- 
ever, in these dialogues, though quite in the style 
and method which Socrates followed in disputa- 
tion, we are not to consider as always the true 
sentiments of that philosopher; since Socrates 
himself, on reading the dialogue entitled Lysis 
on Friendship, which Plato had written while his 
master was alive, could not help charging him 
with misrepresentation, by exclaiming: "Im- 
mortal gods ! how many things this young man 
represents me as saying, of which I never so 
much as thought ! " 

The style of Plato, according to the testimony 
of his scholar Aristotle, kept a mean distance, so 
to speak, between the elevation of poesy and the 
simplicity of prose. So admirable was it in the 
eyes of Cicero, that he makes no hesitation in 
saying, that were Jupiter to converse in the lan- 
guage of men, he would express himself exactly 
in Plato's phrase. Panastius used to style him the 
Homer of philosophers, which coincides very much 
with the judgment afterwards passed on him by 
Quintilian, who treats him as divine and Homeric. 



LIFE OF PLATO. 15 

He formed a system of doctrines, composed of 
the opinions of three philosophers. In what re- 
gards physics and sensible objects, he follows 
the sentiments of Heraclitus. In metaphysics, 
and those subjects which are addressed exclu- 
sively to the intellect, he has taken Pythagoras 
for his guide. In politics and morals he consi- 
dered Socrates to be superior to all, and follow- 
ed him exclusively as his model. 

Plato (as Plutarch relates in chap. iii. book 1. 
On the Opinions of Philosophers,) admitted three 
first principles : god, matter, idea. God, as the 
universal intelligence ; matter, as the substratum 
or first requisite in generation and corruption ; 
idea, as an incorporeal substance, resident in the 
divine mind. 

He indeed acknowledged the world to be the 
work of a God who created, but did not by that 
term understand creation in its strict and proper 
sense 5 for he supposed that God had only formed 
or built it, so to speak, out of matter which had 
eternally pre-existed ; so that this God is the 
creator of the world in so far only as he has 
destroyed the chaos, and given form to brute, in- 
active matter ; as architects and masons, by cut- 
ting and arranging in a certain order inactive 



16 LIFE OF PLATO. 

stones, may thus be called the makers or builders 
of the house, (f) 

It has always been supposed that Plato had 
some knowledge of the true God, the result either 
of his own reason or of the writings of the He- 
brews, to which he might have had access ; (g) but 
it must at the same time be granted, that Plato is 
one of those philosophers of whom Paul speaks 
when he says : " Knowing God, they glorified 
him not as God, but indulged the vanity of their 
own imaginations." (h) 

In fact, he acknowledges, in his Epinomis, three 
kinds of gods ; superior, inferior, and intermedi- 
ate. The superior gods, according to him, in' 
habit the heavens, and by the excellence of their 
nature, and by the place in which they reside, are 
so far exalted above us, that, except by the inter 
vention of the intermediate gods, who inhabit the 
air, and whom he styles daemons, mankind can 
hold no intercourse with them. 

These daemons the superior gods commission 
as ministers to the human race. They carry the 
commands of the gods to men ; and to the gods, 
the offerings and vows of men. Each has his own 
department in the government of the world : they 
preside over oracles and divinations; and are the 



LIFE OF PLATO. 17 

authors of all the miracles which are performed, 
and of the prodigies which happen* 

There is every reason to believe that Plato's 
notions of the second species of gods were found- 
ed on what is said of angels in scripture, of 
which he had some knowledge; but besides these, 
he admits a third kind of gods, inferior to the 
second ; these he places in rivers. He contents 
himself by qualifying them with the title of demi- 
gods, and assigning them the power of sending 
dreams, and performing other wonders, like the 
intermediate gods. He says farther, that all the 
elements and all the parts of the universe are full 
of these demi-gods, who, according to him, some- 
times appear and then vanish from our view. 
Here you have, in all probability, the origin of 
sylphs, salamanders, the elves, (ondains,) and the 
gnomes of the Cabala, (i) 

Plato also taught the doctrine of Mytempsy- 
chosis, which he had borrowed from Pythagoras 
and adapted to his own system; as may be seen 
in his Dialogues entitled Phaedon, Phaedrus, and 
Timaeus, &c. 

Though Plato has composed an excellent dia- 
logue on the immortality of the soul, yet he has 
fallen into gross errors on this subject, both in re- 



18 LIFE OF PLATO. 

lation to the substance of the soul, which he be- 
lieved to be composed of two parts, — the one spi- 
ritual, the other corporeal ; and, in regard to its 
origin, considering souls as pre-existing, and de- 
rived from heaven, to animate different bodies in 
succession ; and that, after having been purified, 
they shall return to heaven, from which, at the 
end of a certain number of years, they shall be 
again employed to animate, successively, different 
bodies ; so that there would be nothing but a con- 
tinual round of defilement and purification, of re- 
turns to heaven and dismissions to earth, to ani- 
mate bodies. 

As he thought that these souls did not forget 
entirely what they had experienced in the differ- 
ent bodies which they had animated, he pretended 
that the knowledge which they acquire is remi- 
niscence of what they had formerly known, rather 
than new knowledge; and on this gratuitously 
assumed reminiscence he founded his dogma of 
the pre-existence of souls, (j) 

But, without dilating any more on the opinions 
of this philosopher, which he has considerably in- 
volved in mysticism, suffice it to say, that his doc- 
trines on many points appeared so novel and so 
sublime, that during his life they procured him 



LIFfc OF PLATO. 19 

the epithet Divine ; and after his death made him 
be regarded almost as a god. 

He died on his birthday, in the first year of the 
hundred and eighth Olympiad, aged eighty-one 
years. 



NOTES 



LIFE OF PLATO. 

> K a) That is broad, EAarov, being derived from irXarvg- 

(b) Parmenides nourished about the ninety-ninth Olynv 
piad. Flato has testified his regard for him, by having in- 
scribed his dialogue concerning Ideas with his name. — Vide 
Diog. Laert. 

(c) This was a step which, in their situation, prudence 
would dictate to Plato, as well as to the other scholars of 
Socrates ; for, if vengeful odium burst on the head of the 
venerable Socrates, how much more might it on his follow- 
ers ? — Vid. Rollin, Anc. His, vol. iii. book ix. c. 4. § 7. 

(d) Things had now taken a turn at Athens: " Melitus 
was condemned to die, and the rest of Socrates's enemies 
banished. Plutarch observes, that all those who had any 
share in this black calumny against Socrates, were held in 
such abomination among the citizens, that no one would 



20 NOTES TO THE 

give them fire, answer them any question, or go into the 
same bath with them, and had the place cleansed where they 
had bathed, lest they should be polluted by touching it ; 
which drove them to such despair, that many of them killed 
themselves." — Rollin, ubi supra. 

(e) Aristotle was a scholar of Plato. 

(/) None of the ancient heathen philosophers ever enter- 
tained any sublime notions of the Deity or creation. That 
from nothing, nothing can be produced, was received as an 
axiom which it would be madness to dispute ; and measuring 
the power of the Deity by their own, they were in a great mea- 
sure ignorant of both. Revelation represents the Deity calling 
existence out of nothing, and creating the world by the word 
of his power. This is an idea that transcends, in sublimity, 
all that heathen poets ever sung, or heathen philosophers 
ever taught. Longinus, who had seen the Scriptures, says, 
that the most sublime expression that ever he had seen or 
heard was that of the Jewish lawgiver : — " God said let there 
be light ; and there was light." 

(g) Some parts of the Septuagint version of the Old Testa- 
ment in Greek might have been seen by Plato while in Egypt, 
though it was certainly not completed till at least seventy 
years after his death ; for it is most probable, that the ver- 
sion now in question was the production of different, and 
considerably distant periods ; and that it was completed and 
collected, under the patronage of Ptolemy Philadelphus, about 
A. M. 3727, or before Christ 276 years. (Vid. Stackhouse, 
Hist, of Bible, vol. 1. Apparat. p. 87. Rollin, Anc. Hist. voj. 
vii. (10 vol. cop.) p. 276. and Bos. edit. o/LXX. proleg.) At 
the same time, the advocates of Divine Revelation have very 
Kttle temptation to claim the doctrines of Plato as peculiar* 



LIFE .OF PLATO. 21 

to the Scriptures. Vid. Shuckford's Connexions, vol. i. pref. 
p. 51. edit. Lond. 1743. 

(h) Rom. i. 21. Instead of adopting our English transla- 
tion, I have followed Fenelon. 

(i) Vid. Le compte de Gabalis, and Pope's Rape of the 
Lock. 

{j ) The reasoning here exhibited, on which Plato found- 
ed the doctrine of the immortality of the soul, comes under 
that species of sophism styled hy logicians reasoning in a 
circle. Thus, the very light of the heathens was darkness, 
and the foundation of their confidence was nothing more 
stable than doubt. (Vid. Tusc. Qucest. lib. i.) It was reserv- 
ed for Jesus Christ " to bring life and immortality to light 
by the gospel." 

Plato supposed the human soul to be an emanation from the 
divinity: " Divina particulam aura;" and that after puri 
. fication by various transmigrations, it was again re-absorbed 
into the divine essence. /But this hypothesis, instead of prov- 
ing, would disprove the immortality of the soul.. The emana- 
tion from the divinity, for instance, that constituted the soul 
of Plato, was a distinct individual whilst it animated his body, 
or any other body into which it might afterwards enter ;( its 
enjoyments and sufferings were referable to the individual 
called self, sby an unavoidable impulse or spontaneity of na- 
ture ; or, to speak more philosophically, by a continuity of 
consciousness, linked together by memory and producing an 
invincible conviction of personal identity ; but when re-ab- 
sorbed into the divine essence, its personal identity and ap- 
propriating consciousness must cease with its separate exist- 
ence ; and, to the individual, this is equal to annihilation. 

Again, on the supposition that the soul was created, (the 

only rational or tenable doctrine,) Plato and his disciples 
3* 



22 NOTES TO THE LIFE OF PLATO. 

allowed that it must perish, " Volt enim (Panatius scil.) quod 
nemo negat, quicquid natum sit, interire." — Tusc. Disput. lib. 
i. 32. f The natural tendency of Plato's doctrine, then, is to 
prove the soul to be mortal, and the Deity mutable and perish- 
able, by an indefinite number of emanations'. It is only by con- 
sidering the acquisitions of the ancients that we can ascertain 
our own advantages ; and in the case to which we have now 
been attending, we see how true it is, that even the wisest of 
them, " by wisdom knew not God ;" and that their most 
laboured arguments to prove the immortality of the soul, 
went no farther than " a fond desire and longing after im- 
mortality." 

For a specimen of beautiful confusion, in explaining 
Plato's doctrine of the immortality of the soul, see Cicero's 
Somnium Scipionis ; and, for a proof of its incapability to 
convince his own mind, see his Tusculan Questions, Lib. 1. 
sub. init. 



THE 



INTRODUCTION 



TO 



PHtEDON. 



Socrates, in his Apology and in his Crito, 
teaches us how we ought to form our lives 5 and 
here he instructs us how to die, and what 
thoughts to entertain at the hour of death. By 
explaining his own views and designs, which 
were the spring of all his actions, he furnishes 
us with a proof of the most important of all truths, 
and of that which ought to regulate our life. For 
the immortality of the soul is a point of such im- 
portance, that it includes all the truths of religion, 
and all the motives that ought to excite and di- 
rect us. So that our first duty is to satisfy our- 
selves on this point; self-love and mere human 
interest ought to spur us up to understand it $ not 



24 INTRODUCTION. 

to speak, that there is not a more fatal condition 
than to be ignorant of the nature of death, which 
appears as terrible as unavoidable. For, accord- 
ing to the notion we have of it, we may draw con- 
sequences directly opposite, for managing the 
conduct of our lives and the choice of our plea- 
sures. Socrates spends the last day of his life in 
discoursing with his friends upon this great sub- 
ject. He unfolds all the reasons that require the 
belief of the immortality of the soul, and refutes 
all the objections they movecf to the contrary, 
w r hich are the very same that are made use of 
at this day. He demonstrates the hope they 
ought to have of a happier life, and lays before 
them all that this blessed hope requires to make 
it solid and lasting, to prevent their being delud- 
ed by a vain hope ; and, after all, meeting with 
the punishment allotted to the wicked instead of 
the rewards provided for the good. 

This conference was occasioned by a truth 
that was casually started, viz : that a true philo- 
sopher ought to desire to die, and to endeavour 
it. This position, taken literally, seemed to in- 
sinuate that a philosopher might lay violent 
hands on himself. But Socrates makes it out 
that there is nothing more unjust ; and that for 



INTRODUCTION. 25 

so much as man is god's creature and property, 
he ought not to remove out of this life without 
his orders. What should it be then that made 
the philosopher have such a love of death? (It 
could be nothing but the hope of the good things 
he expected in another life.) What is the ground 
of this hope ? Here we are presented with the 
grounds assigned bj a heathen philosopher, viz : 
man is born to know the truth, but he can never 
attain to a perfect knowledge of it in this life, by- 
reason that his body is an obstacle. Perfect 
knowledge is reserved for the life to come. 

Then the soul must be immortal, since after 
death it operates and knows. As for jnan's being 
born for the knowledge of truth, that cannot be 
called in question, since he was born to know God. 
From thence it follows, that a true philosopher 
hates and contemns his body, which stands in 
the way of his union to God ; that he wishes to 
be rid of it, and looks upon death as a passage to 
a better life, This solid hope gives being to that 
true temperance and valour which is the lot of 
true philosophers ; for other men are only valiant 
through fear, and temperate through intempe- 
rance ; their virtue is only a slave to vice. 

They object to Socrates, that the soul is nothing 



26 INTRODUCTION. 

but a vapour, that vanishes and disperses itself at 
death. Socrates combats that opinion with one 
that has a great deal of strength in his mouth, but 
becomes much stronger when supported by the 
true religion, which alone can set it in its full light. 
The argument is this : in nature, contraries pro- 
duce their oppositesj so that death, being an ope- 
ration of nature, ought to produce life, that being 
its contrary 5 and by consequence, the death must 
be born again. The soul, then, is not dead, since 
it must revive the body. 

Before we proceed farther, it is fit to take no- 
tice of an error that is couched under this prin- 
ciple, which only the Christian religion can at 
once discover and refute: this is what Socrates 
and all other philosophers are infinitely mistaken 
in — making death a natural thing, there is nothing 
more false. Death is so far from being natural, that 
nature abhors it ; and it was far from the design 
of God in the state in which man was first creat- 
ed. For he created him holy, innocent, and by 
consequence immortal ; it was only sin that 
brought death into the world. But this fatal league 
betwixt sin and death could not triumph over? 
the designs of God, who had created man for im- 
mortality. He knew how to snatch the victory out 



INTRODUCTION. 27 

of their hands, by bringing man to life again, 
even in the shades and horrors of death itself. 
Thus shall the dead revive at the resurrection, 
pursuant to the doctrine of the Christians, which 
teaches that death must give up those it has swal- 
lowed down. So that the principle which Socrates 
did not fully comprehend, is an unshaken truth, 
which bears the, marks of -the ancient tradition 
that the heathens had altered and corrupted. 

The third argument alleged by Socrates as a 
proof of the immortality of the soul, is that of re- 
membrance ; which likewise bears the marks of 
that ancient tradition corrupted by the heathens. 
To find out the truth couched under this argument, 
I advance the following conjectures. 

It seems the philosophers grounded this opi- 
nion of remembrance upon some texts of the Pro- 
phets that they did not well understand ; such as 
that of Jeremiah, " before I formed thee in the 
belly, I knew thee ;" and perhaps their opinion 
was fortified by the ideas and instinct we have for 
several things that were never learned in this world. 
Inshort,we meet with unquestionable marks of cer- 
tain resentments that revive some lights within our 
minds, or the remains of a past grandeur that we 
have lost by sin. And from whence do these pro- 



28 INTRODUCTION. 

ceed ? that inexplicable cypher has no other key 
but the knowledge of original sin. Our soul was 
created so as to be adorned with all manner of 
knowledge suitable to its nature ; and now is sensi- 
ble of its being deprived of the same. The 
philosophers felt this misery, and w T ere not ad- 
mitted to know the true cause ; in order to un- 
riddle the mystery, they invented this creation 
of souls before the body, and a remembrance 
that is the consequence thereof. But we, who are 
guided by a surer light, know that if man were 
not degenerated he would still enjoy the full 
knowledge of the truths he formerly knew ; and if 
he had never been any other than corrupted, he 
would* have* had no idea of these truths. This 
unties the knot. Man had knowledge before he 
was corrupted, and after his corruption forgot it. 
He can recover nothing but confused ideas, and 
stands in need of a new light to illuminate them. 
No human reason could have fathomed this. It 
faintly unravelled part of the mystery, as well as 
it could, and the explication it gave discovers 
some footsteps of the ancient truth ; for it points 
both to the first state of happiness and knowledge, 
and to the second of misery and obscurity. 
Thus may we make a useful application of the 



INTRODUCTION. 29 

doctrine of remembrance, and the errors of phi- 
losophers may oftentimes serve to establish the 
most incomprehensible truths of the Christian re- 
ligion, and shew that the heathens did not want 
traditions relating to them. 
» The fourth argument is taken from the nature 
of the soul. Destruction reaches only compound 
bodies : but w 7 e may clearly perceive that the soul 
is simple and immaterial, and bears a resemblance 
of something divine, immortal and intelligent; for 
it embraces the pure essence of things ; it mea- 
sures all by ideas, which are eternal patterns, and 
unites itself to them when the body does not hin- 
der it ; so that it is spiritual, indissoluble, and 
consequently immortal, as being not capable of 
dissolution by any other means than the will of 
him who created it. 

Notwithstanding the force of these proofs, and 
their tendency to keep up this hope in the soul, 
Socrates and his friends own, that it is almost im- 
possible to ward off doubts and uncertainties, for 
our reason is too weak and degenerate to arrive 
at the full knowledge of truth in this world. So 
that it is a wise man's business to choose from 
amongst those arguments of the philosophers, for 
the immortality of the soul, that which to him 
4 



SO INTRODUCTION* 

seems best and most forcible, and capable to con- 
duct him safely through the dangerous shelves of 
this life, till he obtains a full assurance either 
of some promise, or by some divine revelation ; 
for that is the only vessel that is secure from dan- 
ger. By this the most refined paganism pays 
homage to the Christian religion, and all colour 
or excuse for incredulity is taken off; for the 
Christian religion affords promises, revelations, 
and, which is yet more considerable, the accom- 
plishment of them. 

They move two objections to Socrates : one, 
that the soul is only the harmony resulting from 
the just proportion of the qualities of the body; 
the otfier, that though the soul be more durable 
than the body, yet it dies at last, after having 
made use of several bodies 5 just as a man dies 
after he has worn several suits of clothes. 

Socrates, before he makes any answer, stops a 
little and deplores the misfortune of man, who, 
by hearing the disputes of the ignorant that con 
tradict every thing, persuade themselves that there 
is no such thing as clear, solid, and sensible rea- 
son; but that every thing is uncertain. Like as 
those who, being cheated hy men, become men- 
haters; so they being imposed upon by arguments, 
become haters of reason ; that is, they take up an 



INTRODUCTION. 31 

absolute hatred against all reason in general, and 
will not hear any argument. Socrates makes out 
the injustice of this procedure. He shows that 
when two things are equally uncertain, wisdom di- 
rects us to choose that which is most advantageous 
with the least danger. Now, beyond all dispute, 
such is the immortality of the soul, and therefore 
it ought to be embraced. For if this opinion prove 
true after our death, are we not considerable 
gainers? and if it prove false, what do we lose ? 

Then he attacks that objection which repre- 
sents the soul as a harmony, and refutes it by so- 
lid and convincing arguments, which at the same 
time prove the immortality of the soul. 

His arguments are these : harmony always 
depends upon the parts that conspire together, 
and is never opposite to them ; but the soul has 
no dependence upon the body, and always stands 
on the opposite side. Harmony admits of less 
and more, but the soul does not; from whence it 
would follow that all souls should be equal, that 
none of them are vicious, and that the souls of 
beasts are equally good, and of the same nature 
with those of men ; which is contrary to all rea- 
son. 

In music, the body commands the harmony - y 



32 INTRODUCTION. 

but in nature, the soul commands the body. In 
music, the harmony can never give a sound con- 
trary to the particular sounds of the parts that 
bend or unbend, or move ; but in nature, the 
soul has a contrary sound to that of the body; it 
attacks all passions and desires ; it checks, curbs, 
and punishes the body ; so that it must needs be 
of a very different and opposite nature;, which 
proves its spirituality and divinity. For nothing 
but what is spiritual and divine can be wholly 
opposite to what is material and earthly. 

The second objection was : That the soul 
might outlive the body, yet that does not con- 
clude its immortality ; since we know nothing to 
the contrary, but that it dies at last, after having 
animated the body several times. 

In answer to this objection, Socrates says we 
must trace the first original of the being and cor- 
ruption of Entities. If that be once agreed upon, 
we shall find no difficulty in determining what 
things are corruptible and what not. But what 
path shall we follow in this enquiry? must it be 
that of Physicks ? These Physicks are so un- 
certain, that, instead of being instructive, they 
only blind and mislead us. This he makes out 
from his own experience, so that there is a ne- 



INTRODUCTION. 33 

cessity of going beyond this science, and having 
recourse to metaphysicks, which alone can afford 
us the certain knowledge of the reasons and 
causes of beings, and of that which constitutes 
their essences. For effects may be discovered 
by their causes ; but the causes can never be 
known by their effects. And upon this account 
we must have recourse to the divine knowledge, 
which Anaxagoras was so sensible of that he 
ushered in his treatise of Physicks by this great 
principle, that knowledge is the cause of being. 
But, instead of keeping up to that principle, he 
fell in again with that of second causes, and by 
that means deceived the expectations of his hear- 
ers. 

In order to make out the immortality of the 
soul, we must correct this order of Anaxagoras, 
and sound to the bottom of the above-mentioned 
principle ; which, if we do, we shall be satisfied 
that God placed every thing in the most con- 
venient state. Now this best and most suitable 
state must be the object of our inquiry, to 
which purpose we must know wherein the par- 
ticular good of every particular thing consists, 
and what the general good of all things is. This 
4* 



34 INTRODUCTION* 

discovery will make out the immortality of the 
souL 

In this view Socrates raises his thoughts to im- 
material qualities and eternal ideas ; that is, he 
affirms that there is something that is in itself 
good, fine, just, and great, which is the first cause 5 
and that all things in this world that are good, 
fine, just, or great, are only such by the commu- 
nication of that first cause, since there is no other 
cause of the existence of things but the partici- 
pation of the essence proper to each subject. 

This participation is so contrived, that contra- 
ries are never found in the same subject. From 
which principle it follows by a necessary conse- 
quence, that the soul, which gives life to the body, 
not as an accidental form that adheres to it, but 
as a substantial form, subsisting in itself, and liv- 
ing formally by itself, as the corporeal idea, and 
effectually enlivening the body, can never be 
subject to death, that being the opposite to life ; 
and that the soul, being incapable of dying, can- 
not be worsted by any attack of this enemy ; and 
is in effect imperishable, like the immaterial 
qualities, justice, fortitude, and temperance; but 
with this difference, that these immaterial quali- 
ties subsist independently and of themselves, as 



INTRODUCTION. 35 

being the same thing with God himself; whereas 
the soul is a created being, that may be dissolved 
by the will of its creator. In a word, the soul 
stands in the same relation to the life of the 
body, that the idea of God does to the soul. 

The only objection they could invent upon this 
head, was, that the greatness of the subject, and 
man's natural infirmity, are the two sources of 
man's distrust and incredulity upon this head. 
Whereupon Socrates endeavours to dry up these 
two sources. 

He attacks their distrust, by shewing that the 
opinion of the soul's immortality suits all the ideas 
of God.' For by this mortality, virtue would be 
prejudicial to 'men of probity, and vice beneficial 
to the wicked ; which cannot be imagined. So 
that there is a necessity of another life for re- 
warding the good and punishing the bad. And 
the soul, being immortal, carries along with it into 
the other world its good and bad actions, its vir- 
tues and vices, which are the occasion of its eter- 
nal happiness or misery. From whence, by a 
necessary consequence, we may gather what care 
we ought to take of it in this life. 

To put a stop to the torrent of incredulity, he 



36 INTRODUCTION. 

has recourse to two things, which naturally de- 
mand a great deference from man, and cannot 
be denied without a visible authority. The first 
is, the ceremonies and sacrifices of religion itself, 
which are only representations of what would be 
put in execution in hell. The other is the autho- 
rity of antiquity, which maintained the immor- 
tality of the soul ; in pursuit of which, he men- 
tions some ancient traditions that point to the 
truth published by Moses and the prophets, not- 
withstanding the fables that overwhelm them. 
Thus we see a Greek philosopher, and no Chris- 
tian, supplies the want of proof, which is too na] 
tural to man, and silences the most obstinate pre- 
judices by having recourse to the oracles of God, 
which they were in some measure acquainted 
with ; and by so doing, makes answer to Sim- 
mias, who had objected that the doctrine of the 
immortality of the soul stood in need of some 
promise or divine revelation to procure its recep- 
tion. Though some blinded Christians reject the 
authority of our Holy Writ, and refuse to sub 
mit to it; yet we see the good Socrates had so 
much light as to make use of it to support his 
faith, if I may so speak, and to strengthen this 
sweet hope of a blessed eternity. He shows. 



INTRODUCTION. 37 

that he knew how to distinguish the fabulous 
part of tradition from the truth, and affirms no- 
thing but what is conformable to the Scriptures, 
particularly the last judgment of the good and 
the bad ; necessary purgation of those who de- 
part this life under a load of sin ; the eternal 
torments of those who committed mortal sin* in 
this life ; the pardon of venial s>^ «*rter satisfac- 
tion and repentance ; the happiness of those who 
during the whole course of their lives renounced 
the pleasures of the body, and only courted the 
pleasure of true knowledge, that is, the know- 
ledge of God ; and beautified their souls with 
proper ornaments, such as temperance, justice, 
fortitude, liberty, and truth. He does not joke 
upon the groundless Metempsychosis, or return 
of souls to animate bodies in this life ; but speaks 
seriously, and shows that after death all is over ; 
the wicked are thrown forever into the bottom- 
less abyss, and the righteous conveyed to the 
mansions of the blessed, Those who are neither 
righteous nor wicked, but commit sins in this life 
which they always repented of, are committed to 
places of torment till they are sufficiently puri- 
fied. 

When Socrates made an end of his discourse, 



38 INTRODUCTION. 

his friends asked what orders he would give con- 
cerning his affairs. The only orders I give, 
replied he, is to take care of yourselves, and to 
make yourselves as like to God as possible. 
Then they asked him, how he would be interred? 
This question offended him. He would not have 
k^nself confounded with his corpse, whicli was 
only to Dt x^+prred. And though the expression 
seems to import little, he shewed that such false 
expressions gave very dangerous wounds to the 
souls of men. 

He goes and bathes ; his wife and children are 
brought to him ; he talks to them a minute, and 
then dismisses them. Upon his coming out of 
the bath, the cup is presented to him. He takes 
it, collects his thoughts within himself, prays, 
and drinks it off with an admirable tranquillity of 
mind. Finding that he approaches his end, he 
gives them to know that he resigned his soul into 
the hands of him who gave it, and of the true 
physician who was coming to heal it. This was 
the exit of Socrates. Paganism never afforded 
such an admirable example ; and yet a certain 
modern author is so ignorant of its beauty, that 
he places it infinitely below that of Petronius, the 
famous disciple of Epicurus* He did not em- 



INTRODUCTION* 39 

ploy the last hours of his life, says that author, 
in discoursing on the immortality of the soul, but 
chose a more pleasant death in imitating the 
sweetness of the swan, and causing some agree- 
able and touching verses to be recited to him. 
This was a fine imitation ; it seems Petronius 
sung what they read to him. But this was not 
all. Nevertheless, continues he, he reserved 
some minutes for thinking of his affairs, and dis- 
tributed rewards to some of his slaves and punish- 
ed others. Let them talk of Socrates, says he, and 
boast of his constancy and bravery in drinking 
up the poison ! Petronius is not behind him ; 
nay, he is justly entitled to a preference upon the 
score of his forsaking a life infinitely more de- 
lightful than that of the sage of Greece ; and that 
too, with the same tranquillity of mind and even- 
ness of temper. 

We have no need of long dissertations to make 
out the vast difference between the death of So- 
crates and that of this Epicurean, whom Tacitus 
himself, notwithstanding his paganism, did not 
dare to applaud. On one side we are presented 
with the view of a man that spent his last mo- 
ments in making his friends better ; recommending 
to them the hope of a blessed eternity; and shew- 



40 INTRODUCTION. 

ing what that hope requires of them ; a man that 
died with his eyes intent upon God, praying to 
him, and blessing him, without any reflections 
upon his enemies who condemned him so unjustly. 
On the other side, we meet with a voluptuous 
person, in w r hom all sentiments of virtue are quite 
extinguished ; who, to be rid of his own fears, 
occasioned his own death ; and in his exit would 
admit of no other entertainment but agreeable 
poems and pleasant verses ; who spent the last 
moments of his time in rewarding those of his 
slaves; who doubtless had been the ministers and 
accomplices of his sensualities, and seeing those 
punished who perhaps had shewn an aversion to 
his vices. A good death ought to be ushered by 
a good life. Now. a life spent in vice, effeminacy 
and debauchery, is much short of one entirely 
taken up in the exercise of virtue, and the solid 
pleasure of true knowledge, and adorned w 7 ith 
the venerable ornaments of temperance, justice, 
fortitude, liberty, and truth. One of Socrates* 
dying w r ords was, that those who entertained bad 
discourses upon death, wounded the soul very 
dangerously ; and what would not he have said 
of those who scruple not to write them ? 

But it is probable this author did not foresee 



INTRODUCTION* 41 

the consequences of this unjust preference* He 
wrote like a man of this world, that never knew 
Socrates. Had he known him, he would certain- 
ly have formed a juster judgment ; and, in like 
manner, if he had known Seneca or Plutarch, he 
would not have equalled or preferred Petronius to 
them. Had he made the best use of his under- 
standing, he would have seen reasons to doubt, 
that the Petronius now read is the Petronius of 
Tacitus, whose death he so much admires ; and 
would have met with some just objections, which 
at least gave occasion to suspect its being 
spurious. But to return to Socrates. 

His doctrine of death's being no affliction, but, 
on the contrary, a passage to a happier life, 
made considerable progress. Some philosophers 
gave such lively demonstrations of it in their 
lectures, that the greatest part of their disciples 
laid violent hands on themselves in order to over- 
take that happier life. Ptolemasus Philadelphus 
prohibited Hegisias of Cyrene to teach it in his 
school, for fear of dispeopling his kingdom ; and 
the poets of that prince's court, siding with him, 
as they commonly do, used all means to decry 
that doctrine and those who were prevailed upon 
to embrace it. It was their pernicious complaK 



42 INTRODUCTION* 

sance that occasioned what we now read in Calli- 
machus against the immortality of the soul ; and, 
above all, that famous epigram Cicero alledges 
to have been written against Cleombrotus of Am- 
bracia, but was certainly designed likewise against 
Plato. It is to this purpose Cleombrotus of Am- 
bracia, having paid his last compliment to the sun, 
threw himself headlong from the top of a tower 
into hell ; not that he had done any thing worthy 
of death, but only had read Plato's Treatise on 
the Immortality of the Soul. (1) 

But, after all, it redounds to the glory of So- 
crates and Plato, and the doctrine of the immor- 
tality of the soul, that none but such enemies as 
those oppose it. 



PH^DON: 



OB 



A DIALOGUE 



IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 



Echecrates and Phcedon. 



Ec. (2) Phaedon, were you present when So- 
crates (3) drank the poison? or did any body 
give you an account how he behaved in that 
juncture? 

Ph. (4) I was present. 

Ec. What were his last words then, and how 
did he die? You will oblige me much with the 
relation : for the Phliasians (5) have but little 
correspondence with the Athenians, and it is a 
great while since we had any stranger from 
Athens to acquaint us how things went. We 
only heard that he died after drinking the poison, 
but could not understand any particulars relating 
to his death. 



44 THE PHiEDON 

Ph. What! did you not hear how he was ar- 
raigned ? 

Ec. Yes, truly, somebody told us that ; and 
we thought it strange that his sentence was so 
long in being put into execution after his trial. 

Ph. That happened only by chance : for the 
day before his trial, the stern of the sacred ship 
which the Athenians send every year to Delos, 
was crowned for the voyage. 

Ec. What is that sacred ship ? 

Ph. If you believe the Athenians, it is the 
same ship in which Theseus transported the four- 
teen young children to Crete, and brought them 
safe back again ; and it is said the Athenians at 
that time vowed to Apollo, that if the children 
w^re preserved from the impending danger, they 
would send every year, to Delos, presents and 
victims aboard the same vessel : and this they do 
ever since. As soon as the ship is cleared and 
ready to put to sea, they purify the city, and ob- 
serve an inviolable law for putting none to death 
before the return of the ship. Now sometimes 
it stays long out, especially if the winds be con- 
trary. This festival, which is properly called 
Theoria, commences when the priest of Apollo 
has crowned the stern of the vessel. Now, as 



OF PLATO. 45 

I told you, this happened on the day preceding 
the trial of Socrates ; and it was upon that ac- 
count that he was kept so long in prison, after 
his being committed. 

Ec. And during his imprisonment what did he 
do ? What said he ? Who was with him ? Did 
the judges order him to be kept from visits ? And 
did he die without the assistance of his friends ? 

Ph. Not at all ; several of his friends remain- 
ed with him to the last minute. 

Ec. If you are at leisure, pray relate the whole 
story. 

Ph. At present I have nothing to do, and so 
shall endeavour to satisfy your demands. Be- 
sides, I take the greatest pleasure in the world in 
speaking, or hearing others speak, of Socrates. 

Ec. Assure j^ourself, Phaedon, you shall not 
take more pleasure in speaking than I in hear- 
ing. Begin, pray 5 and, above all, take care to 
omit nothing. 

Ph. You will be surprised when you hear 
what a condition I was then in. I was so far 
from being sensibly touched with the misfortune 
of a friend whom I loved most tenderly, and 
who died before my eyes, that I envied his cir- 
cumstances, and could not forbear to admire the: 



46 THE PEUEDON 

goodness, sweetness, and tranquillity, that ap- 
peared in all his discourses, and the bravery he 
shewed upon the approach of death. Every 
thing that I saw furnished me with a proof that 
he did not pass to the shades below without the 
assistance of some Deity, that took care to con- 
duct him, and put him in possession of the 
transcendent felicity of the blessed. But as, on 
one hand, these thoughts stifled all the senti- 
ments of compassion that might seem due at such 
a mortifying sight ; so, on the other hand, they 
lessened the pleasure I was wont to have in 
hearing all his other discourses, and affected me 
with that sorrowful reflection, that in the space 
of a minute this divine man would leave us for 
ever. Thus was my heart tossed with contrary 
motions that I could not define. It was not pro- 
perly either pleasure or grief, but a confused 
mixture of these two passions, which produced 
almost the same effect in all the by-standers. 
One while we melted into tears, and another 
while gave surprising signs of real joy and sen- 
sible pleasure. Above all, Apollodorus (6) dis- 
tinguished himself upon this occasion ; you 
know his humour. 

Ec. Nobody knows it better. 



OF PLATO. 47 

Ph. In him was the difference of these mo- 
tions most observable; as for me and all the 
rest, our behaviour was not so distinguishing, as 
being mixed with the trouble and confusion I 
spoke of just now. 

Ec. Who was there besides yourself? 

Ph. There were no other Athenians but 
Apollodorus, Critobulus(7) and his father Crito, 
Hermogenes, Epigenes, iEschines, Antisthenes, 
Ctesippus, Menexemus, and a few more. Plato 
was sick. 

Ec. Were there no strangers ? 

Ph. Yes ; Simrnias the Theban, and Cebes and 
Phedondes ; and from Megara, (8) Euclides and 
Terpsion. 

Ec. What! were not Aristippus(9) and Cleom- 
brotus there ? 

Ph. Certainly not, (10) for it is said they were 
at jEgina. 

Ec. Who was there besides ? 

Ph. I believe I have named most of those that 
were there. 

Ec. Let us hear then what his last discourses 
were. 

Ph. I shall endeavour to give you a full ac- 
count, for we never missed one day in visiting 



48 THE PH^EDON 

Socrates. To this end, we met every morning in 
the place where he was tried, which was joined 
to the prison, and there we waited till the prison 
doors were open ; at which time we went straight 
to him, and commonly passed the whole day 
with him. On the day of his execution we came 
thither sooner than ordinary, having heard, as 
we came out of the city, that the ship was re- 
turned from Delos. When we arrived, the gaoler 
that used to let us in, came out to us, and desired 
we should stay a little, and not go in till he came 
to conduct us ; for, says he, the eleven magis- 
trates (11) are now untying Socrates, and ac- 
quainting him that he must die this day. When 
we came in, we found Socrates unbound, and his 
wife Xantippe, you know her, sitting by him 
with one of his children in her arms; and as soon 
I as she espied us, she fell crying and making a 
) noise, as you know women commonly do on 
I such occasions. Socrates, said she, this is the 
last time your friends will see you. Upon which, 
Socrates, turning to Crito, says, Crito, send this 
woman home. Accordingly it was done. CritoY 
folks carried Xantippe off, who beat her face and 
cried bitterly. In the mean time Socrates, sitting 
upon the bed, softly stroked the place of his leg 



OF PLATO. 49 

where the chain had been fastened, and says, 
to my mind, what men call pleasure is a pretty 
odd sort of a thing, which agrees admirably well 
with pain ; the people believe it is quite contrary 
because they cannot meet in one and the same 
subject; for whoever enjoys the one, must un- 
avoidably be possessed of the other, as if they 
were naturally joined. 

Had iEsop been aware of this truth, perhaps 
he had made a fable of it, and told us that God, 
designing to reconcile these two enemies, and 
not being able to accomplish the end, contented 
himself with binding them to one chain ; so that 
ever since the one follows the other, according 
to my experience this minute : for the pain occa- 
sioned by my chain is followed by a great d§&l 
of pleasure. 

1 am infinitely glad, replies Cebes, interrupting 
him, that you, have mentioned iEsop, for by so 
doing, you have put it in my head to ask you a 
question that many have asked me of late, espe- 
cially Evenus.(12) The question relates to your 
poems in turning the fables of JEsop into verse, 
and making a hymn to Apollo. They want to 
know what moved you, who never made verses 
before, to turn poet since you came into the 



50 THE PHiEDON 

prison ? If Evenus asks the same question of me 
again, as I know he will, what would you have 
me say ? 

You have nothing to do, says Socrates, but to 
tell him the plain matter of fact as it stands, viz. 
That I did not at all mean to rival him in poetry, 
for I know such an attempt was above my reach; 
but only to trace the meaning of some dreams, 
and put myself in a capacity of obeying, in case 
poetry happened to be the music that they al- 
lotted for my exercise, For you must know, 
that all my lifetime I have had dreams, which 
always recommended the same thing to me, 
sometimes in one form and sometimes in another. 
Socrates, said they, apply yourself to music. 
This I always took for a simple exhortation, like 
that commonly given to those who run races, 
ordering me to pursue my wonted course of life, 
and carry on the study of wisdom ; that I made 
my whole business, which is the most perfect 
music. But since my trial, the festival of Apollo 
having retarded the execution of my sentence, I 
fancied these dreams might have ordered me to 
apply myself to that vulgar and common sort of 
music ; and since I was departing from this world, 
I thought it safer to sanctify myself by obeying 



OF PLATO. 51 

the Gods, and essaying to make verses, than to 
disobey them. Pursuant to this thought, nry- first 
essay was a hymn to the God whose festival was 
then celebrated ; after that, I considered that a 
true poet, ought not only to make discourses in 
verse, but likewise fables. Now, finding myself 
not disposed to invent new fables, I applied my- 
self to those of iEsop, and turned those into verse 
that came first into my mind. This, my dear 
Cebes, is the answer you are to give Evenus, 
assuring him that I wish him all happiness 5 and 
tell him, that if he be wise he will follow me, for 
in all appearance I am to make my exit to-day, 
since the Athenians have given orders to that 
effect. 

What counsel is that you give to Evenus ? re- 
plies Simmias;(13) I have seen that man often, 
and from what I know of him, I can promise you 
he will never follow you with his will. 

What, says Socrates, is not Evenus a philoso- 
pher? 

I think so, says Simmias. 

Then, replied Socrates, he and all others that 
are worthy of that profession, will be willing to 
follow me. I know he will not kill himself, for 
that, they say, is not lawful. Having spoken 



52 THE FH^DON 

these words, he drew his legs off the bed and 
seated himself on the ground, in which posture 
he entertained us the whole remaining part of 
the day. 

Cebes(14) put the first question to him, which 
was this : How do you reconcile this, Socrates, 
that suicide is unlawful, and at the same time 
that a philosopher ought to follow you ? 

What, says Socrates, did neither you nor Sim- 
mias ever hear your friend Philolaus (15) discourse 
upon that point? 

No, replied they, he never explained himself 
clearly upon that point, 

As for me, replies Socrates, I know nothing 
but what I have heard ; and shall not grudge to 
communicate all that I have learned. Besides, 
there is no exercise so suitable for a man upon 
the point of death, as that of examining and 
endeavouring to know thoroughly that voyage 
we must all make, and in giving his opinion 
upon it. 

Where is the ground of that assertion, says 
Cebes, that suicide is unlawful ? I have often 
neard Philolaus and others say, that it was a bad 
action, but I never heard them say more. 

Have patience, says Socrates, you shall know 



OF PLATO. 53 

more presently, and perhaps you will be sur- 
prised to find it an eternal truth which never 
changes ; whereas most other things in this world 
alter according to circumstances : this is still the 
same, even in the case of those to whom death 
would be more agreeable than life. Is it not a 
surprising thing that such men are not allowed to 
possess themselves of the good they want, but 
are obliged to wait for another deliverer? 

Jupiter only knows that, replied Cebes, smiling. 

This may appear unreasonable to you, says 
Socrates, but, after all, it is not so. The dis- 
courses we are entertained with every day in 
our ceremonies and mysteries, viz. that God has 
put us in this life, as in a post which we cannot quit 
without his leave, &c. These, I say, and such 
like expressions, may seem hard, and surpass our 
understanding; but nothing is easier to be under- 
stood, or better said, than this, That the Gods take 
tare of men, and that men are one of the possessions 
of the Gods. Is not this true? 

Very true, replies Cebes. 

Would not you, continues Socrates, be angry 
if one of your slaves (16) killed himself without 
your order, and would you not punish him se- 
verely if you could. 



54 THE PHJEDON 

Yes, doubtless, replies Cebes. 
By the same reason, says Socrates, a man should 
not kill himself, but wait for an express order from 
God for making his exit, like this sent me now. 

That is granted, says Cebes ; but your saying, 
that a philosopher ought nevertheless to desire to 
die, is what I think strange, and I cannot reconcile 
these two opinions ; especially if it be true, what 
you said but now, that the Gods take care of men. 
as being their property: for that a philosopher 
should not be troubled to be without the Gods for 
his guardians, and to quit a life where such per- 
fect beings, the best governors of the world, take 
care of him, seems very unreasonable to me. Do 
they imagine they will be more capable to govern 
themselves when left alone ? I can easily con- 
ceive that a fool may think it his duty to flee from 
a good master at any rate, and will not be con- 
vinced that he ought to stick to what is good, 
and never lose sight of it: but I affirm that a 
wise man will never desire to quit a dependence 
upon a more perfect being than himself. From 
whence I infer the contrary of what you advanc- 
ed, and conclude that the wise are sorry to die, 
and fools are fond of death. 

Socrates seemed to be pleased with Cebes* 



OF PLATO. 55 

wit ; and turning to us, told us that Cebes has al- 
ways something to object, and takes care not to 
assent at first to what is told him. 

Indeed, says Simmias, I must say I find a great 
deal of reason in what Cebes has advanced. 
What can the sages pretend to gain, by quiting 
better masters than themselves and willingly de- 
priving themselves of their aid ? Do you mind 
that ; it is you alone that he addressed himself to, 
meaning to reprove you for your insensibility in 
being so willing to part with us, and quit the 
Gods, who, according to your own words, are such 
good and wise governors. 

You are in the right of it, says Socrates ; I see 
you mean to oblige me to make formal defences, 
such as I gave in at my trial. 

That is the very thing, replies Simmias. 

Then, says Socrates, you must satisfy your- 
selves, so that this my last apology may have 
more influence upon you than my former had 
upon my judges. For my part, if I thought I 
should not find in the other world Gods as good 
and as wise, and men infinitely better, than we are, 
it would be a piece of injustice in us not to be 
troubled at death. But, be it known to you, Sim- 
mias, and to you Cebes, that I hope to arrive at 



56 THE PILEDON 

the assembly of the just. Indeed, in this point I 
may flatter myself: but as for my finding in the 
world masters infinitely good and wise, that 1 can 
assure you of as much as things of that nature will 
bear ; and therefore it is that death is no trouble 
to me, hoping that there is something reserved for 
the dead after this life ; and that the good meet 
with better treatment in the world to come than 
the bad. 

How, replies Simmias, would you have quitted 
this life without communicating these sentiments 
to us ? This, methinks, will be a common good ; 
and if you convince us of all that you believe with 
reference to this point, you have made a sufficient 
apology. 

That is what I design to try, says Socrates ; but 
I would first hear what Crito has to say ; I thought 
he had a mind to offer something some time ago. 
I have nothing to say, replies Crito, but what 
your executioner has been pushing me on to tell 
you for some time, that you ought to speak as 
little as possible for fear <of overheating yourself, 
since nothing is more contrary to the operation of 
poison, insomuch that if you continue to speak 
so you will be obliged to take two or three 
doses. (17) 



OF PLATO. 57 

Let him do his office, says Socrates ; and make 
ready two or three doses if he chooses. 

I knew you would give me that answer, replies 
Crito ; but still he importunes me to speak to you. 

Pray let that alone, says Socrates, and suffer 
me to explain before you, who are my judges, 
for what reasons a man enlightened by philosophy 
ought to die with courage, and a firm hope that in 
the other world he shall enjoy a felicity beyond 
any thing in this. Pray do you, Simmias and 
Cebes, listen to my arguments. 

True philosophers make it the whole business 
of their lives to learn to die. Now it is extreme- 
ly ridiculous for them, after they run a whole 
course incessantly, in order to compass that one 
end, to shrink and be alarmed when it comes up 
to them, when they are just in a capacity of ob- 
taining it after a long and painful search. Where- 
upon Simmias laughed, and told him in earnest, 
Socrates, you make me laugh, notwithstanding the 
small occasion I have to laugh in this juncture ; 
f o r I am certain the greatest part of those who 
hear you talk so, will say you talk much better of 
the philosophers than you believe. Above all, the 
Athenians would be glad if every philosopher 
would learn that lesson so well as to die in effect ; 
6* 



58 THE PILEDON 

and they will be ready to tell you, that death is 
the only thing they are worthy of. 

Simmias, says Socrates, our Athenians would 
so speak the truth, but without knowing it to be 
such : for Ihey are ignorant in what manner phi- 
losophers desire to die, or how they are worthy 
of it. But let us leave the Athenians to them- 
selves, and talk of things within our own compa- 
ny. Does death appear to be any thing to you ? 

Yes, without doubt, replies Simmias. 

Is it not, continues Socrates, the separation of 
soul and body ; so that the body has one separate 
being and the soul another ? 

Just so, says Simmias. 

Let us try then, my dear Simmias, if your 
thoughts and mine agree. 

By that means we shall set the object of our 
present inquiry in a clearer light. Do you think 
a philosopher courts what the world calls plea- 
sure, as that of eating, drinking, &c. ? 

Not at all, Socrates. 

Nor that.of love ? 

By no means. 

Do you think they pursue or mind the other 
pleasures relating to the body, such as good 
clothes, handsome shoes, and the other ornaments 



OF PLATO. 59 

of dress ? Whether do you think they value or 
slight those things, when necessity does not en- 
force their use ? 

In my opinion, replies Simmias, a true philoso- 
pher must needs contemn them. 

Then you believe, continuesSocrates, that the 
body is not at all the object of the care and busi- 
ness of a philosopher : but, on the contrary, that 
his whole business is to separate himself from it, 
and mind only the concerns of his soul. 

Most certainly. 

Thus, continues Socrates, it is plain? upon the 
whole, that a philosopher labours in a more dis- 
tinguished manner than other men to purchase 
the freedom of his soul, and cut off all commerce 
between it and the body. I am likewise of opi- 
nion, Simmias, that most men will grant, that who- 
ever avoids those corporeal things, and takes, no 
pleasure in them, is not worthy to live ; and that 
he who does not use the pleasures of the body, is 
near to death. 

You speak truth, Socrates. 

But what shall we say of the acquiring of pru- 
dence ? Is the body an obstacle or not when em- 
ployed in that work ? I will explain my meaning 
by an example. 
I 



§0 THE PILEDON 

Have seeing and hearing any thing of truth in 
them, and is their testimony faithful? Or are 
the poets in the right in saying that we neither 
see nor hear things truly ? For if these two 
senses of seeing and hearing are r.ot trustworthy, 
the others, which are much weaker, will be far 
less such. Do you not think so? 

Yes, without doubt, replies Simmias. 

When does the soul then, continues Socrates, 
find out the truth ? We see, that while the body 
is joined in the inquiry, this body plainly cheats 
and seduces it. 

That is true, says Simmias. 

Is it not by reasoning that the soul embraces 
truths ? And does it not reason better than be- 
fore, when it is not encumbered by seeing or 
hearing, pain or pleasure ? When shut up within 
itself, it bids adieu to the body, and entertains as 
little correspondence with it as possible ; and 
pursues the knowledge of things without touching 
them. 

That is well spoken. 

Is it not, especially upon this occasion, that 
the soul of a philosopher despises and avoids 
the body, and wants to be by itself? 

I think so. 

I 



OF PLATO. 61 

What shall we say then, my dear Simmias, of 
all the objects of the soul ? For instance, shall 
we call justice something or nothing? 

We must certainly give it the title of some- 
thing. 

Shall we not likewise call it good and fine ? 

Yes, doubtless* 

But did you ever see these objects with the 
eyes of your body ? 

No, certainly not. 

Or with any other sense ? Did you ever touch 
any of these things I now speak of, such as mag- 
nanimity, health, fortitude ; and, in a word, the 
essence of all other things ? Is the truth of them 
discovered by the body ? Or is it not certain, 
that whoever puts himself in a condition to exa- 
mine them more narrowly, and trace them to the 
bottom, will better compass the end and know 
more of them ? 

That is very true. 

Now the simplest and purest way of examin- 
ing things, is to pursue every particular by 
thought alone, without* offering to support our me- 
ditations by seeing,or backing our reason by any 
other corporeal sense ; by employing the naked 
thought without any mixture, and so endeavour- 



52 THE PH^DON 

ing to trace the pure and genuine essence of 
things without the ministry of the eyes or ears : 
the soul being, if I may so speak, entirely disen- 
gaged from the whole mass of body, which only 
cumbers the soul, and cramps it in the quest of 
wisdom and truth, as often as it is admitted to the 
least correspondence with it. If the essence 
of things be ever known, must it not be in the 
manner above-mentioned ? 

Right, Socrates ; you you have spoken incom- 
parably well. 

Is it not a necessary consequence from this prin- 
ciple, continues Socrates, that true philosophers 
should have such language among themselves ? 
This life is a road, that is apt to mislead us and 
our reason in all our inquiries; because while we 
have a body, and while our soul is drowned in so 
much corruption, we can never attain the object 
of our washes, i. e, truth. The body throws a 
thousand obstacles and crosses in our way by 
demanding necessary food ; and then the diseases 
that ensue do quite disorder our inquiry; be- 
sides, it fills us with love, desires, fears, and a 
thousand foolish imaginations, insomuch that 
there is nothing truer than the common saying, 
that the body will never conduct us to wisdom. 



OF PLATO. 63 

What is it that gives rise to wars, and occasions 
seditions and duelling? Is knot the body and its 
desires? In effect, all wars take their rise from 
the desire of riches, which we are forced to heap 
up for the sake of the body, in order to supply 
its wants, and serve it like slaves. It is this that 
cramps our application to philosophy ; and the 
greatest of all our evils is, that when it has given 
us some respite, and we are set upon meditation, 
it steals in and interrupts our meditations all of a 
sudden. It cumbers, troubles, and surprises us 
in such a manner, that it hinders us from disco- 
vering the truth. Now we have made it out, 
that in order to trace the purity and truth of any 
thing, we should lay aside the body and only 
employ the soul to examine the objects we pur- 
sue; so that we can never arrive at the wisdom 
we court till after death. Reason is on our side. 
For if it is impossible to know any thing purely 
while we are in the body, one of these things 
must be true : — either the truth is never known, 
or it is known after death ; because the soul will 
then be left to itself and freed from its burden, 
and not before. And while we are in this life, 
we can only approach to the truth in proportion 
to our removing from the body, and renouncing 



64 THE PEUEDON 

all correspondence with it that is not of mere 
necessity, and keeping ourselves clear from the 
contagion of its natural corruption, and all its 
filth, till God himself comes to deliver us. Then 
indeed, being freed from all bodily folly, we shall 
converse in all probability with men that enjoy 
the same liberty, and shall know within ourselves 
the pure essence of things, which, perhaps, is no- 
thing but the truth. But he who is not pure, is 
not allowed to approach to purity itself. This, 
my dear Simmias, as I take it, should be the 
thought and language of the true philosopher. 
Are not you of the same mind ? 

Most certainly, Socrates. 

Then, my dear Simmias, whoever shall arrive 
where I am now going, has great reason to hope 
that he will there be possessed of what we look 
for here with so much care and anxiety ; so that 
the voyage I am now sent upon fills me with a 
sweet and agreeable hope. And it will have the 
same effect upon all who are persuaded that the 
soul must be purged before it knows the truth. 
Now, the purgation of the soul, as we are saying 
but just now, is only its separation from the body, 
its being accustomed to retire and lock itself up, 
renouncing a41 commerce with it as possible, and 



OF PLATO. 65 

living by itself, whether in this or the other world, 
without being chained to the body. 

All that is true, Socrates. 

Well ! what we call death; is not that the disen- 
gagement and separation of the body from the 
soul? 

Most certainly. 

Are not the true philosophers the only men 
that seek after this disengagement ? and is not 
that separation and deliverance their whole bu- 
siness ? 

So I think, Socrates. 

Is it not a ridiculous fancy, that a man that has 
lived in the expectation of death, and during his 
whole lifetime has been preparing to die, upon 
his arrival at the point of desired death, should 
think to retire and be afraid of it ? Would not 
that be a very scandalous apostacy ? 

How should it be otherwise ? 

It is then certain, Simmias, that death is far 
from feeing terrible to true philosophers, that it is 
their whole business to die ; which may be easily 
inferred thus : If they slight and contemn their 
body, and passionately desire to enjoy their soul 
by itself, is it not a ridiculous way of belying 
themselves to be afraid when that minute comes? 



66 THE PH^DON 

And is it not a piece of extravagance to decline 
going to that place, where those who get to it 
hope to obtain the good things they have wished 
for all their life-time ? For they desired wisdom, 
and a deliverance from the body, as being a bur- 
den, and the object of their hatred and contempt. 
Do not many, upon the loss of their mistresses, 
wives, or children, (18) willingly cut the thread 
of life, and convey themselves into the other 
world, merely 'upon the hope of meeting them 
and enjoying the company of those they love ? 
and shall a true lover of wisdom, and one that 
firmly hopes to attain the perfection of it in the 
other world, shall he be startled by death, and 
be unwilling to go to the place that will furnish 
him with what his soul loves ? Doubtless, my 
dear Simmias, if he be a true philosopher, he 
will go with a great deal of pleasure; as being 
persuaded that there is no place in the regions 
below which can furnish him with that pure 
wisdom which he is in quest of. Now, if things 
stand thus, would it not be a piece of extrava- 
gance in such a man to fear death ? 

To be sure, says Simmias, it would be so in 
reality. 

And, consequently, continues Socrates, when a 



OF PLATO. 67 

man shrinks and retires at the point of death, it 
is a certain evidence that he loves not wisdom, 
but his own body, or honour, or riches, or per- 
haps all three together. 

It is so, Socrates. 

Then, Simmias, is not that which we call fortitude 
belong in a peculiar manner to philosophers ? and 
does not temperance, or that sort of wisdom that 
consists in controlling our desires, and living 
soberly and modestly, suit admirably well with 
those who contemn their bodies and live philo- 
sophically ? 

That is certain, Socrates. 

Were you to inspect the fortitude and tempe- 
rance of other men, you would find them very 
ridiculous. 

How so, Socrates ? 

You know, says he, all other men look on death 
as the greatest affliction. 

That is true, says Simmias. 

When those you call brave suffer death with 
some courage, they do it only for fear of some 
greater evil. 

I must grant that. 

And of consequence, all men, except the philo- 
sophers, are only brave and valiant through fear. 



68 THE PHJEDON 

And is it not ridiculous to believe a man to be 
brave and valiant that is only influenced by fear 
and timorousness ? 

You are right, Socrates. 

Is not the case the same with your temperate 
persons ? It is only intemperance makes them 
such. Though at first view this may seem 
impossible, yet it is no more than what daily 
experience shews to be the result of that foolish 
and ridiculous temperance ; for such persons 
disclaim one pleasure only through fear of being 
robbed of other pleasures that they covet, and 
which have an ascendancy over them, They will 
cry out to you as long as you will, that intempe- 
rance consists in being ruled and overawed by our 
passions ; but at the same time that they give you 
this fine definition, it is only their subjection to 
some predominant pleasures that makes them dis- 
qard others. This I have said, that they are only 
temperate through intemperance. 

That is very clear, Socrates. 

Let us not be imposed upon, my dear Simmias ; 
the straight road to virtue does not lie in shifting 
pleasure for pleasure, fear for fear, or one melan- 
choly thought for another, and imitating those 



OF PLATO. 69 

who change a large piece of money for many 
small ones. But wisdom is the only true and 
unalloyed coin, for which all others must be 
given in exchange. With that piece of money 
we purchase all fortitude, temperance, justice. 
In a word, that virtue is always true which 
accompanies wisdom, without any dependence 
upon pleasures, grief, fear, or any other passions. 
Whereas all other virtues, stript of wisdom, which 
run upon a perpetual change, are only shadows 
of virtue. True virtue is really and in effect a 
purgation from all this sort of passions. Tem- 
perance, justice, fortitude and prudence, are wis- 
dom itself ; are not exchanged for passions, but 
cleanse us from them. And it is pretty evident 
that those who instituted the purifications, called 
by us Teletes, i. e. perfect expiations, were per- 
sons of no contemptible rank, men of great genius, 
who in the first ages meant by such riddles 
to let us know (19) that whoever enters the 
other world without being initiated and purified, 
shall be hurled headlong into the vast abyss ; and 
that whosoever arrives there after due purgation 
and expiation, shall be lodged in the apartments 
of the Gods. For, as the dispensers of these 
expiations say, there are many who bear the 

7* 



70 THE PILEDON 

Thyrsus, (20) but few that are possessed by the 
spirit of God. Now, those who are thus pos- 
sessed, as I take it, are the true philosophers. 
I have tried all means to be enlisted in that 
number, and have made it the business of my 
whole life to compass my end. If it please God, 
I hope to know in a minute that my efforts have 
not been ineffectual, and that success has crowned 
my endeavours. This, my dear Simmias, and 
my dear Cebes, is the apology which 1 offer 
to justify my not being troubled or afflicted for 
parting with you, and quitting my governors in 
this life ; hoping to find good friends and rulers 
there as well as here. This the vulgar cannot 
digest. However, I shall be satisfied if my de- 
fences take better with you than they did with 
my judges. 

Socrates having thus spoken, Cebes took up the 
discourse to this purpose. Socrates, I agree to the 
truth of all you have said. There is only one 
thing that men look upon as incredible, viz. what 
you have advanced of the soul. (21) For almost 
every body fancies, that when the soul parts from 
the body it is no more ; it dies along with it; it 
vanishes like a vapour or smoke, which flies off 
and disperses, and has no existence. For if it 



OF PLATO. 71 

subsisted by itself, were gathered and retired into 
itself, and freed from all the above-mentioned 
evils ; there were a fair and promising prospect, 
ascertaining the truth of what you have said. But 
that the soul lives after the death of a man that 
it is sensible, that it acts and thinks; that, I say, 
needs both insinuation and solid proofs to make 
it go down. 

You say right, Cebes, replies Socrates; but 
how shall we manage this affair ? Shall we in 
this interview examine whether it is probable or 
not? 

I shall be highly pleased, says Cebes, to hear 
your thoughts upon that subject. 

At least, says Socrates, (22) 1 cannot think that 
any man hearing us, though he were a comedian, 
would upbraid me with raillery, and charge me 
with not speaking of such things as concern us 
very much. If you have a mind that we should 
trace this affair to the bottom, my opinion is 
that we should proceed in the following manner, 
in order to know whether the souls of the dead 
have a being in the other world or not. 

It is a very ancient opinion, that souls quitting 
this world repair to the infernal regions, and af- 
terwards return to live in this world. If it be so, 



72 THE PHiEDON 

that men return to life after death, it follows^ 
necessarily, that during that interval their souls 
are lodged in the lower regions : for if they had 
not a being, they could not return to this world ; 
and this be will a sufficient proof of what we affirm, 
if we be convinced that the living spring from the 
dead; if otherwise, then we must look out for 
other proofs. 

That is certain, says Cebes. 

But to assure ourselves of this truth, replies 
Socrates, it is not sufficient to examine the point 
upon the comparison with men ; but likewise 
upon that with other animals, plants, and what- 
ever has a vegetable principle. By that means 
we shall be convinced that all things are born 
after the same manner ; that is, whatever has a 
contrary owes its first rise to its contrary. For 
instance, handsome is the opposite to ugly, and 
just to unjust ; and the same is the case of an infi- 
nite number of other things. Now, let us see if 
it be absolutely necessary that whatever has a 
contrary should spring from that contrary. As 
when a thing becomes larger, of necessity it must 
formerly have been less before it acquired that 
magnitude ; and when it dwindles into a less 
form, it must needs have been greater before its 



OF PLATO. 73 

diminution. In like manner, the strongest arises 
from the weakest, and the swiftest from the slowest* 

That is a plain truth, says Cebes. 

And pray, continues Socrates, when a thing 
becomes worse, was it not formerly better ? and 
when it grows just, is it not because it was for- 
merly unjust ? Yes surely, Socrates. 

Then it is sufficiently proven that every thing 
is generated by its contrary. 

Sufficiently, Socrates. 

But is not there always a certain medium be- 
tween these two contraries? There are two 
births or two processions, one of this from that, 
another of that from this. The medium between 
a greater and a less, is increase and diminution. 
The same is the case of what we call mixing, se- 
parating, heating, cooling, and all other things in 
infinitum. For though it sometimes falls out that 
we have not terms to express those changes and 
mediums, yet experience shews that, by an abso- 
solute necessity, things take rise from one another, 
and pass reciprocally from one to another through 
a medium. 

There is no doubt of that. And what, continues 
Socrates, has not life likewise its contrary, as 
awaking has sleeping ? 



74 THE PH2ED0N 

Without doubt, says Cebes. 

What is that contrary ? 

Death. 

Since these two things are opposite, do they not 
take rise one from the other ? And between these 
two, are there not two generations or two pro- 
cessions ? 

Why not ? 

But, says Socrates, I am about to tell you how 
the above-mentioned combination stands, and to 
shew you the original and progress of each of 
these two things which make up the compound. 
Pray tell me how waking and sleeping are re- 
lated ? Does not sleep beget watchfulness, and 
watching beget sleep ? and is not the generation 
of sleep, the falling asleep ? and that of watching, 
the awaking ? 

All very clear. 

Now, pray view the combination of life and 
death. 

Is not death the opposite of life ? 

Yes. 

And does not one breed the other ? 

Yes. 

What is it that life breeds ? 

Death. 



OF PLATO. 75 

What is it that death breeds ? 

It must certainly be life. 

Then, says Socrates, all living things, and man, 
are bred from death. 

So I think, says Cebes. 

And therefore, continues Socrates, our souls are 
lodged in the infernal world after death. 

The consequence seems just. 

But of these two generations, one, viz. death, is 
very palpable ; it discovers itself to the eye, and 
is touched by the hand. 

Most certainly. 

Shall not we then attribute to death the virtue 
of producing its contrary, as well as to life ? Or 
shall we say that nature is lame and maimed on 
that score ? 

There is an absolute necessity, replies Cebes, 
of ascribing to death the generation of its con- 
trary. 

What is that contrary ? 

Reviving, or returning to life. 

If there is such a thing as returning to life, it 
is nothing else than the birth of the dead, and re- 
turning to life. And thus we agree that the living 
are as much the product of the dead as the dead 
are of the living 5 which is an incontestible proof 



76 THE PELEDON 

that the souls of the dead must remain in same 
place or other whence Ihey may return to life. 

That, as I take it, says Cebes, is a necessary con- 
sequence, from the principles we have agreed on, 

And I look upon it, Cebes, these principles are 
well grounded : consider them yourself. (23) If 
all these contraries had not their productions and 
generation in their turn, which form a circle ; and 
if there were nothing but one birth, and one direct 
production from one to the other, contrary with- 
out the return of the last contrary to the first that 
produced it ; were it not so? all things would ter- 
minate in the same figure, and be affected in the 
same manner, and at last cease to be born. 

I do not perfectly understand you, Socrates. 

There is no difficulty in conceiving what I now 
mean. If there were nothing but sleep, and if 
sleep did not produce watching, (24) it is plain 
that every thing would be an emblem of the fable 
of Endymion, and nothing would be seen any 
where ; because the same thing must happen to 
them that happened to Endymion, viz. they must 
always sleep. If every thing were mingled with- 
out any subsequent separation, we should soon 
see the doctrine ofAnaxagoras fulfilled, and all 
things jumbled together. At the same rate, my 



OF PLATO. 77 

dear Cebes, (25) if all living things died, and, 
being dead, continued so without reviving, would 
not all things unavoidably come to an end at 
last, insomuch that there would not be a living 
thing left in being ? For if living things did (26) not 
arise from dead ones, when the living ones die, 
of necessity all things must at last be swallowed 
up by death and entirely annihilated. 

It is necessarily so, replies Cebes ; all that you 
have said seems to be perfectly obvious. 

In my opinion, Cebes, there is no objection made 
against these truths, neither are we mistaken in 
receiving them; for it is certain that the living 
rise out of the dead ; that the souls departed have 
a being; and upon their return to this life, the 
good souls are in a better, and the bad ones in a 
worse, condition. 

What you now advance, says Cebes, interrupt- 
ing Socrates, is only a necessary consequence of 
another principle that I have often heard yov lay 
down, viz. that all our acquired knowledge is only 
remembrance ; for if that principle be trie, we 
must necessarily have learned at another time 
what we call to mind in this. Now thai is im- 
possible, unless our souL had a being before its 



78 THE PHUEDON 

being invested with this human form ; so that this 
same principle concludes the immortality of the 
soul. 

But, Cebes, says Simmias, interrupting him, 
what demonstration have we of that principle ? 
Pray refresh my memory with it, for at present 
it is out of my head. 

There is a very pretty demonstration for it, re- 
plies Cebes. All men being duly interrogated, 
find out all things of themselves; which they 
never could do without knowledge and right rea- 
son. Put them at unawares upon the figures of 
geometry, and other things of that nature, they 
presently perceive that it is correctly stated. 

Simmias, says Socrates, if you will not rely upon 
this experience, pray try whether the same me- 
ihod will not bring you over to our sentiments» 
Ek> you find great difficulty in believing that 
leaning is only remembering ? 

Ido not find very much, replies Simmias, but 
I woild gladly learn that remembrance you speak 
of. iy what Cebes has said, I almost remember 
it, and I begi/^ ' believe it; but that shall not 
hinder rtxe from rearing with pleasure the argu- 
ments you can offer for it. 



O^PLATO. 79 

I argue thus, replies Socrates : we all agree, 
that in order to remember, a man must have 
known before what he then recalls to mind. 

Most certainly. 

And let us likewise agree upon this, that know- 
ledge coming in a certain manner is remem- 
brance. I say, in a certain manner: for instance, 
when a man by seeing, hearing, or perceiving a 
thing by any of the senses, knows what it is that 
thus strikes his senses, and at the same time ima- 
gines to himself another thing, independent of that 
knowledge, by virtue of a quite different know- 
ledge, do we not justly say that the man remem- 
bers the thing that comes thus into nis mind? 

What do you say, replies Simmias ? 

I say, replies Socrates, for example, that we 
know a man by one sort of knowledge, and a harp 
by another. 

That is certain, says Simmias. 

Well then, continues Socrates, do not you know 
what happens to lovers when they see the harp, 
habit, or any other thing that their friends or 
mistresses were accustomed to use ? It is just as 
I said but now; upon see nd knowing the 

harp, they form in their mind the image of the 
person to whom the harp belongs. This is re- 



30 THE PH^aDON 

membrance. Thus it often happens, that one 
seeing Simmias, thinks of Cebes. I could cite a 
thousand other instances. This then is remem- 
brance, especially when the things called to mind 
are such as had been forgotten through length of 
time or being out of sight. 

That is certain, says Simmias, 

But, continues Socrates, upon seeing the pic- 
ture of a horse or harp, may not one call to mind 
the man? And upon seeing the picture of Sim- 
mias, may not one think of Cebes ? 

Undoubtedly, says Simmias. 

Much more, continues Socrates, upon seeing 
the picture of Simmias, will he call to mind Sim- 
mias himself. 

Yes, with ease. 

From all these instances We infer, that remem- 
brance is occasioned sometimes by the things that 
are like the object remembered, and sometimes 
by things that are unlike ; but when one remem- 
bers any thing by virtue of a likeness, does it not 
necessarily follow that the mind, at first view, 
discovers whether the picture resembles the ob- 
ject designed, partially or perfectly ? 

It must be so, replies Simmias. 

Then pray mind whether your thoughts of 



OF PLATO. 81 

what I am about to say agree with mine. Is not 
there something that we call equality ? I do not 
speak of the equality between one tree and ano- 
ther, one stone and another, and several other 
things that are alike : I speak of the abstract equa- 
lity of things. Shall we call that something or 
nothing ? Surely we should call it something ; 
but that will only come to pass when we mean to 
speak philosophically, and of marvellous things. 

But then do we know this equality ? 

Without doubt. 

From whence do we derive that knowledge ? 
Is it not from the things we mentioned just now ? 
It is upon seeing equal trees, equal stones, and 
several other things of that kind, that we form 
the idea of that equality, which is neither the 
trees nor the stones, but something abstracted 
from all these objects. Do not you find it so? 
Pray take notice, the stones and the trees are 
always the same, and yet do not they sometimes 
appear unequal ? 

Yes, certainly. 

What! do equal things appear unequal? or 
does equality take up the form of inequality ? 

By no means, Socrates. 



8* 



82 THE PHjEDON 

Then equality, and the thing which is equal, 
are two different things. 

Most certainly. 

But, after all, these equal things, which are dif- 
ferent from equality, furnish us with the idea 
and knowledge of that abstracted equality. 

That is true, says Simmias. 

The case is the same, whether this equality 
bears a resemblance to the thing which occa- 
sioned the idea of it, or not. 

Most certainly. 

When upon Seeing one thing, you call to mind 
another, it is no matter if it be a resemblance or 
not ; still it is remembrance. 

Without doubt. 

But what shall we say to this, continues So- 
crates, when we behold trees or other things that 
are equal ; are they equal according to the equa- 
lity of which we have the idea, or not ? 

Very far from it. 

Then we agree upon this : when a man sees 
any thing before him, and thinks it would be equal 
to another, but at the same time is so far from 
being so perfectly equal as the equality of which 
ha has the idea; then, I say, he who thinks thus, 



OF PLATO. 83 

must necessarily have known beforehand this 
intellectual being, which the object resembles, but 
imperfectly. 

That is necessarily the case ? 

And is it not the same when we compare things 
equal with the equality ? 

Certainly, Socrates. 

Then of necessity we must have known that 
equality before the time in which we first saw 
the equal things, and thereupon thought that they 
all tended to be equal as equality itself, but could 
not reach it. 

That is correct. 

But we likewise agree upon this, that this 
thought can be derived from nothing else but 
one of our senses ; from seeing, touching, or feel- 
ing one way or other : and the same conclusion 
will hold good of all beings, whether intellectual 
or sensible. 

All things will equally conclude for what you 
design. 

Then it is from the senses themselves that we 
derive this thought ; that all the objects of our 
senses have a tendency towards this intellectual 
equality^ but come short of it : is it not? 

Yes, without doubt, Socrates. 



§4 THE PJKUEDON 

In effect, Simmias, before we begin to see, feel, 
or use any of our senses, we must have had the 
knowledge of this intellectual equality ; else we 
could not be capable of comparing it with the sen- 
sible objects, and perceive that they have all a ten- 
dency towards it, but fall short of its perfection. 

That is a necessary consequence from these 
premises. 

But is it not certain, that, immediately after our 
birth, we saw, we heard, and made use of other 
senses? 

Very true. 

Then it follows, that before that time we had 
the knowledge of that equality ? 

Without doubt. 

And of course we were possessed of it before 
we were born. 

I think so. 

If we possessed it before we were born, then 
we knew things before we were born and imme- 
diately after our birth ; knew not only what is 
great, what is small, what is equal, but all other 
things of that nature. 

For what we now advance of equality is 
equally applicable to goodness, justice, sanc- 
tity ; and, in a word, to all other things that have 



OF PLATO. 85 

a real existence; (27) so that we must of ne- 
cessity have known all these things before we 
came into this world. 

That is certain. 

And being possessed of that knowledge, if we 
did not forget apace every day, we should not 
only be born with it, but retain it all our life- 
time. For to know, is only to preserve the know- 
ledge we have received, and not to lose it. And 
to forget, is to lose the knowledge we enjoyed 
before. 

True, Socrates. 

Now if, after having possessed that knowledge 
before we were born, and having lost it since, 
we come to retrieve it by the ministry of our 
senses, which we call learning, shall not we 
justly entitle it remembrance ? 

Yes, with good reason, Socrates. 

For we have agreed upon this ; that it is very 
possible that a man seeing, hearing, or perceiving 
one thing by any of his senses, should frame to 
himself the imagination of another thing that he 
had forgotten, to which the thing perceived by 
the senses has some relation, whether it resem- 
bles the other or not; so that one of two things 
must necessarily follow : either we were born 



86 THE PR&DON 

with that knowledge, and preserved it all along; 
or else retrieved it afterwards by remembrance. 
Which of these two do you pitch upon, Simmias ? 
Are we born with that knowledge, or do we call 
it to mind, after having had it and forgotten it ? 

Indeed, Socrates, I do not know which to 
choose at present. 

But mind what I am to say to you, and then 
let us see which you will choose. A man that 
knows any thing, can he give a reason of his 
knowledge or not ? 

Doubtless he can, Socrates. 

And you think all men can give a reason for 
what we have been speaking of ? 

I wish they could, replies Simmias ; but I am 
afraid to-morrow we shall have no one here that 
is capable of doing it. (28.) 

Then you think all men have not this know- 
ledge ? 

Certainly not. 

Do they call to mind then, the things they have 
known ? 

That may be. 

At what time did our souls learn that know- 
ledge ? It cannot be since we were men* 

Certainly not. 



OF PLATO. 87 

Then it must be some time before that ? 
Yes, without doubt. 

And, of course, Simmias, our souls had a being 
before that time 5 that is to say, before they were 
invested with a human form 5 while they were 
without the body/ they thought, they knew, and 
they understood. 

Unless you will allow, Socrates, that we learned 
it at the instant of our birth ; there is no other 
time left. 

Be it so, my dear Simmias, but at what other 
time did we lose it ? For we did not bring it into 
the world with us, as we concluded just now. 
Did we lose it at the same instant that we ob- 
tained it? Or can you assign any other time ?, 

No, Socrates; I did not perceive that what I 
said was to no purpose. 

Then, Simmias, this must be a standing truth, — 
that if the objects of our daily conversation have 
a real existence; I mean, if justice, goodness, and 
all the essence with which, we compare the ob- 
jects of our senses, and which having an exist- 
ence before us, proves to be of the same nature 
with our essence, and is the standard by which 
we measure all things ; I say, if all these things 
have a real existence, our soul is likewise entitled 



88 THE PILEDON 

to existence, and that before we were born ; and 
if these things have no being, then all our dis- 
courses are useless. Is it not a standing truth, 
and withal a just and necessary consequence, that 
the existence of our souls, before our birth, stands 
and falls with the proof of those things ? 

That consequence, replies Simmias, seems to 
me to be equally just and wonderful ; and the re- 
sult of the whole discourse affords something very 
glorious and desirable on our behalf, since it con- 
cludes, that before we were born, .our souls had 
an existence as well as that intelligible essence 
you mentioned before. For my part, I think 
there is nothing more evident and more sensible 
than the existence of all these things, viz. good- 
ness, justice, &c. and you have sufficiently made 
it out* 

Now for Cebes, says Socrates ; for he must like- 
wise be convinced. 

I believe, replies Simmias, that although he is 
one of the most unyielding men upon earth, and 
almost proof against arguments, yet he will own 
your proof to be convincing. In the mean time, 
though I am sufficiently convinced that our souls 
had a being before we were born, 1 have not yet 
heard sufficient proof for its continuing to exist 



OF PLATO. 89 

after our death. For that popular opinion which 
Cebes mentioned just now remains in all its force, 
viz. that after the death of man, the soul disperses 
and ceases to be. And indeed, I cannot see why 
the soul should not be born, or proceed from 
some part or other, and have a being before it 
animates the body in this life ; and when it re- 
moves from the body, cease to be, and make its 
exit as well as the body. 

You speak well, Simmias, says Cebes; to my 
mind Socrates has only proven the half of what 
he proposed. It is true, he has demonstrated 
that the soul has a being before the body; but 
to complete his demonstration, he should have 
proven that our soul has an existence after death 
as well as before this life. 

But I have demonstrated it to you both, replies 
Socrates, and you will be sensible of it if you 
join this last proof with w r hat you acknowledged 
before, viz. that the living rise from the dead. 
For if it is true that our soul was in being before 
we were born ; then, of necessity, when it comes 
to life, it proceeds, so to speak, from the bosom 
of death ; and why should it not lie under the 
same necessity of being after death, since it must 
return to life ? Thus what you speak of is made 



90 THE PfLEDON 

out ; but I perceive both of you desire to sound 
this matter to the bottom, and are apprehensive, 
like children, that when the soul departs the 
body, the winds run away with it and disperse 
it ; especially when a man dies in a open country 
in a place exposed to the winds. 

Whereupon Cebes smiling, replied, pray then, 
Socrates, try to dispel our fears, or rather con- 
vince us as if we feared nothing ; though indeed 
there be some among us who lie under these 
childish apprehensions ; persuade us then not to 
fear death as a vain phantom. 

As for that, says Socrates, you must employ 
spells and exorcisms every day until you be 
cured. 

But pray, Socrates, where shall we meet with 
that excellent conjurer, since you are going to 
leave us ? 

Greece is large enough, replies Socrates, and 
well stored with learned men. Besides, there 
are a great many barbarous nations, which you 
must scour in order to find out the conjuror, 
without sparing either labour or expense ; for you 
cannot employ your money in a better cause. 
You must likewise look for one among youselves ; 
for it is possible there may be none found more 



OF PLATO. 91 

capable to perform those enchantments than 
yourselves. 

We shall obey your orders, Socrates, in look- 
ing out for one ; but in the' mean time, if you 
please, let us resume our former discourse. 

With all my heart, Cebes. 

Well said, Socrates. 

The first question we ought to ask ourselves, 
says Socrates, is, what sort of things they are that 
are apt to be dissipated ; what things are liable 
to that accident, and what part of those things ? 
Then we must inquire into the nature of the soul, 
and form our fears or our hopes accordingly. 

That is very true. 

Is it not certain that only compound things ad- 
mit of being dissipated at the same rate that they 
were compounded ? If there are any uncom- 
pounded beings, they alone are free from this 
accident, and naturally incapable of dissipation. 

I think that is very clear, replies Cebes. 

Is it not very likely, that things which are al- 
ways the same, and in the same condition, are 
not at all compounded ; and that those which are 
liable to perpetual changes, and are never the 
same, are certainly compounded? 

I am of your opinion, Socrates. 



92 THE PEUEDON 

Let us betake ourselves to the thing we were 
speaking of just now, the existence whereof is 
never contested either in question or answer i 
Are these things always the same, or do they 
sometimes change ? — equality, beauty, goodness, 
and every singular thing, that is the essence it- 
self: do these receive the least alteration, or are 
they so pure and simple that they continue al- 
ways the same without undergoing the least 
change ? 

Of course, replies Cebes, they must continue 
the same without alteration. , 

And all these fine things, says Socrates ; such 
as men, horses, habits, moveables, and a great 
many other things of the same nature, are en- 
tirely opposite to the former, that they never 
continue in the same condition, either with refer- 
ence to' themselves or others, but are subject to 
perpetual alterations? 

They never continue in the same condition, 
replies Cebes. 

Now these are the things that are visible, 
tangible, or perceptible by some other sense ; 
whereas the former, which continue still the 
same, can only be reached by thought, as being 
immaterial and invisible. 



OF PLATO. 93 

That is true, Socrates. 

If you please, continues Socrates, I will in- 
stance, in two things, one visible, the other 
invisible ; one still the same, and the other be- 
traying continual alterations. 

With all my heart, says Cebes. 

Let us see, then ; are we not compounded of a 
body and a soul ? Or are there any other ingre- 
dients in our composition ? 

Certainly not. 

Which of the two things does our body most 
resemble ? 

All men own that it is most conformable to the 
visible sort. 

And pray, my dear Cebes, is our soul visible 
or invisible ? 

It is invisible to men, at least. 

But when we speak of visible or invisible 
things, we mean with regard to men, without 
minding any other nature. 

Once more, then, is the soul visible or not? 

It is not visible. 

Then it is invisible or immaterial ? 

Yes. 

And of course the soul is more conformable 



9* 



94 THE PILEDO N 

than the body to the invisible kind of things ; and 
the body suits better with the visible ? 

That is self-evident. 

When the soul makes use of the body, in con- 
sidering any thing by seeing, hearing, or any 
other sense; that being the sole function of the 
body, to consider things by the senses ; should 
not we then say that the body draws the soul 
upon mutable things ? In this condition, it strays, 
frets, staggers, and is giddy like a man in drink, 
by reason of its being engaged in matter. Whereas, 
when it pursues things by itself, without calling 
in the body, it betakes itself to what is pure, im- 
mortal, immutable 5 and, as being of the same 
nature, dwells constantly upon it when it is mas- 
ter of itself ; then its errors are at an end, and it 
is always the same, as being united to what never 
changes 5 and this passion of the soul is what we 
call wisdom or prudence. 

That is admirably well spoken, Socrates, and a 
great truth. 

After all, then, which sort of things does the 
soul seem to resemble most ? 

In my mind, Socrates, there is no man so stu- 
pid and stiff as not to be obliged, by your method 



OF PLATO. 95 

of arguing, to acknowledge that the soul bears a 
greater resemblance and conformity to the immu- 
table being than to that which is always upon 
the change. 

And as for the body ? 

It bears a greater resemblance to the other* 

Let us try another way. During the conjunc- 
tion of body and soul, nature orders the one to 
obey and be a slave, and the other to command 
and hold the empire. Which of these two cha- 
racters are most suitable to the Divine Being, or 
to that which is mortal ? Are not you sensible that 
the divine is only capable of commanding and 
ruling ; and what is mortal is only worthy of 
obedience and slavery ? 

Most certainly. 

Which of these two, then, agrees best with the 
soul? 

It is evident, Socrates, that our soul resembles 
what is divine, and our body what is mortal. 

You see, then, my dear Cebes, the necessary 
result of all is, that our soul bears a strict resem- 
blance to what is divine, immortal, intellectual, 
simple, indissoluble ; and is always the same, and 
always like it : and that our body does perfectly 



96 THE PELEDON 

resemble what is human, mortal, sensible, com- 
pounded^ dissoluble ; always changing, and never 
like itself. Can any thing be supposed to destroy 
that consequence, or make out the contrary ? 

Certainly not, Socrates. 

Does not it then suit with the body to be 
quickly dissolved, and with the soul to be always 
indissoluble or something very near it ? 

That is a standing truth. 

Accordingly, you see every day, when a man 
dies, his visible body, that continues exposed to 
our view, and which we call the corpse, that alone 
admits of dissolution, alteration, and dissipation. 
This, I say, does not immediately undergo any of 
these accidents, but continues a long time in 
its flower, if I may so speak, especially in this 
season. Bodies embalmed after the manner 
of those in Egypt, (29) remain entire for an infi- 
nity of years ; and even in those that corrupt, 
there are always some parts, such as the bones, 
nerves, or the like, that continue in a manner im- 
mortal. Is not this true ? 

Very true. 

Now, as for as the soul, which is an invisible 
being, that goes to a place like itself, marvellous, 



OF PLATO. 97 

pure, and invisible, in the infernal world ; and re- 
turns to a God full of goodness and wisdom, which 
I hope will be the fate of my soul in a short time 
if it please God. Shall a soul of this nature, and 
created with all these advantages, be dissipated 
and annihilated as soon as it parts from the 
body, as most men believe? No such thing, my 
dear Simmias and Cebes. I will tell you what 
will rather come to pass, and what we ought 
steadfastly to believe. If the soul retains its 
purity without any mixture of filth from the 
body, as having entertairvd no voluntary corre- 
spondence with it 5 but, on the contrary, hav- 
ing always avoided it, and recollected itself 
within itself, in continual meditations; that is, 
in studying the true philosophy and effectually 
learning to die ; for philosophy is a preparation 
for death: I say, if the soul lepart in this condi- 
tion, it repairs to a being like itself, — a being 
that is divine, immortal, an I full of wisdom; in 
which it enjoys an inexpressible felicity, in being 
freed from its errors, its ig wance, its fears, its 
amours, that tyrannized over it, and all the other 
evils pertaining to human nature: and, as it is 
said of those who have been initiated inholymys- 
teries s it truly passes a whole course of eternity 



0g THE PKMEDON 

with the gods. Ought not this to be the matter 
of our belief? 

Most certainly, Socrates. 

But if the soul depart full of uncleanness and 
impurity, as having been all along mingled with 
the body, always employed in its service, al- 
ways possessed by the love of it, decoyed and 
charmed by its pleasures and lusts ; insomuch 
that it believed there was nothing real or true 
beyond what is corporeal, — what may be seen, 
touched, drank, eaten, or what is the object of 
carnal pleasure ; that it hated, dreaded, and 
avoided what the eyes of the body could not des- 
cry, and all that is intelligible, and can only be 
enjoyed by philosophy. Do you think, I say, 
that a soul in this condition can depart pure and 
simple from the body ? 

No, Socrates, that is impossible. On the con- 
trary, it departs stained with corporeal pollution, 
which was rendered natural to it by its continual 
commerce and too intimate union with the body 
at a time when it was its constant companion ; 
and was still employed in serving and gratifying it. 

Most certainly. 

This pollution, my dear Cebes, is a gross, 
heavy, earthly, and visible mass ; and the soul, 



OF PLATO. 99 

loaded with such a weight, is dragged into that 
visible place, not only by the weight, hut by its 
own dreading the light and the invisible place 5 
and, as we commonly say, it wanders in the 
church-yards, round the tombs, where dark phan- 
toms and apparitions are often seen; such as 
these souls that did not depart the body in pu- 
rity or simplicity, but polluted with that earthly 
and visible matter, and makes them degenerate 
into a visible form. 

That is very likely, Socrates. 

Yes, without doubt, Cebes 5 and it is also likely 
that it is not the good but the bad souls that are 
forced to wander in those places of impurity ; 
where they suffer for their former bad life, and 
continue to wander, till, through the love they 
have to this corporeal mass, which always fol- 
lows them, they engage again in a new body, 
and, in all probability, plunge themselves into 
the same manners and passions as was the occu- 
pation of their first life. 

What do you say, Socrates ? 

I say, Cebes, that, for instance, those who made 
their belly their God, and loved nothing but in- 
dolence and impurity, without any shame, and 
without any reserve ; those enter into the bodies 



100 THE PHiEDON 

of asses or such like creatures. Do not you think 
this very probable ? 

Yes, Socrates. 

And those souls which loved only injustice, ty- 
ranny, and rapine, are employed to animate the 
bodies of wolves, hawks, and falcons. Where 
else should souls of this stamp go ? 

No where else, Socrates. 

The cause of all the rest is much the same ; 
they go to animate the bodies of beasts of differ- 
ent species, according as they resemble their first 
courses. 

According to these principles it cann«i be 
otherwise. 

The happiest of all these men, w T hose souls 
are sent to the most agreeable place, are those 
who have always made a profession of popular 
and civil virtues, which are called temperance 
and justice 5 to which they have brought them- 
selves only by habit and exercise, without any 
assistance from philosophy and the mind. 

How can they be so happy, then ? 

It is probable that, after death, their souls are 
joined to the bodies of politic and meek animals 5 
such as bees, wasps, and ants : or else return to 
human bodies, and become temperate and wise 



OF PLATO. 101 

men ; but as for approaching to the nature of 
God, that is not at all allowed to those who did 
not live philosophically, and whose souls did not 
depart with all their purity. That great privi- 
lege is reserved for the lovers of true wisdom ; 
and it is upon the consideration of this, my dear 
Simmias and my dear Cebes, that the true philo- 
sophers renounce the desires of the body, and 
keep themselves up from its lusts. They are not 
apprehensive of the ruin of their families, or of 
poverty, as the vulgar are, and those who are 
wedded to their riches : they fear neither igno- 
miny nor reproach, as those who court only dig- 
nities and honours. In a word, they renounce all 
things, and even themselves. 

It would not be suitable for them to do other- 
wise, replied Cebes. 

No, continued Socrates: in like manner, all 
those who value their souls, and do not live for 
the body, depart from all such lusts, and follow a 
different course from those insensible creatures 
that do not know where they go. They are per- 
suaded that they ought not to do any thing con- 
trary to philosophy, or harbour any thing that 
destroys its purifications and retards their liberty; 

10 



102 THE PHiEDON 

and accordingly resign themselves to its con* 
duct, and follow it whithersoever it leads them. 

What do you say, Socrates ? 

I will explain it to you. The philosophers, find- 
ing their souls tied and chained to the body, and 
by that means obliged to employ the body in the 
pursuit of objects which it cannot follow alone, so 
that it still floats in an abyss of ignorance, are very 
sensible that the force of this bond lies in its own 
desires, insomuch that the prisoner itself helps to 
lock up the chains. They are sensible that phi- 
losophy, coming to seize upon the soul in this 
condition, gently instructs and comforts it, and 
endeavours to disengage it, by giving it to know 
that the eye of the body is full of illusion and de- 
ceit, as well as all its other senses ; by advertising 
it not to use the body farther than necessity re- 
quires 5 and advising it to recollect and shut up 
itself within itself; to receive no disposition but 
its own, after it has examined within itself the in- 
trinsic nature of every thing, and strip it of the 
covering that conceals it from our eyes ; and to 
continue fully persuaded, that whatever is tried 
by all its other senses, being different from the 
former discovery, is certainly false. Now, what 



i 



OF PLATO. 103 

ever is tried by the corporeal senses, is visible 
and sensible ; and what it views by itself with- 
out the ministry of the body, is invisible and 
intelligible; so that the soul of a true philosopher, 
being convinced that it should not oppose its own 
liberty, disclaims, as far as it is possible, the plea- 
sures, lusts, fears, and sorrows of the body : for 
it knows that when one has enjoyed many plea- 
sures, or given way to extreme grief or timorous- 
ness, or given himself to his desires, he not only 
is afflicted by the sensible evils known to all the 
world — such as the loss of health or estate, but 
is doomed to the last and greatest of evils ; an 
evil that is so much the more dangerous and ter- 
rible, because it is not obvious to our senses. 

What evil is that, Socrates ? 

It is this : that the soul being forced to rejoice 
or be afflicted upon any occasion, is persuaded 
that what causes its pleasure or grief is a real and 
true thing, though at the same time it is not : and 
such is the nature of all sensible and visible things 
that are capable of occasioning joy or grief. 

That is certain, Socrates. 

Are not these passions then, the chief instru- 
ments particularly that imprison and mew up the 
soul within the body ? How is that, Socrates ? 



104 THE PHiEDON 

Every pleasure, every melancholy thought, be- 
ing armed with a strong and keen nail, nails the 
soul to the body with such force that it becomes 
material and corporeal, and fancies there are no 
real and true objects but such as* the body ac- 
counts so : for as it entertains the same opinion, 
and pursues the same pleasures with the body, so 
it is obliged to the same actions and habits : for 
which reason it cannot descend in purity to the 
lower world, but is daubed all over with the pol- 
lution of the body it left, and quickly enters ano- 
ther body ; where it takes root, as if it had been 
sown, and puts a period to all commerce with the 
pure, simple, and divine essence. 

That is very true, Socrates. 

These are the motives that oblige the true phi- 
losophers to make it their business to acquire 
temperance and fortitude, and not such motives 
as the vulgar think of. Are not you of my opinion, 
Cebes ? 

Yes, certainly. 

All true philosophers will still be of that mind. 
Their soul will never entertain such a thought, as 
if philosophy should disengage it, to the end that, 
when it is freed, it should follow its pleasures and 
give way to its fears and sorrows ; that it should 



OF PLATO. 105 

put on its chains again, and always want to begin 
again : like Penelope's web, on the contrary, it 
continues in a perfect tranquillity and freedom 
from passion, and always follows reason for its 
guide, without departing from its measures ; it 
incessantly contemplates what is true, divine, im- 
mutable, and above opinion, being nourished by 
this pure truth : it is convinced that it ought to 
follow the same course of life while it is united to 
the body; and hopes that after death, being sur- 
rendered to that immortal being as its source, it 
will be freed from all the afflictions of the human 
nature. After such a life, and upon such princi- 
ples, my dear Simmias and Cebes, what should 
the soul be afraid of ? Shall it fear that, upon 
its departure from the body, the winds will dissi- 
pate it and run away with it, and that annihilation 
will be its fate ? 

Socrates having thus spoken, he paused for a con- 
siderable time, seeming to be altogether intent 
upon what he had said. Most of us were in the 
same condition, and Cebes and Simmias had a 
short conference together. At last, Socrates per- 
ceiving their conference, asked them what they 
were speaking of? 

Do you think, says he, that my arguments $re 
10* 



106 THE PILEDON 

lame? 1 think, indeed, there is room left for a 
great many doubts and objections, if any will take 
the pains to retail them out. If you are speaking 
of any thing else, I have nothing to say ; but 
though you have no doubts, pray, tell me freely, 
if you think of any better demonstration, and 
make me a companion in your inquiry, if you 
think I can assist you to compass your end. 

I will tell you, says Simmias, the naked truth, 
It is some time since Cebes and I thought of the 
same doubts, and being desirous to have them 
resolved, pushed on one another to propose ihem 
to you. But we were both afraid to importune 
you, and propose disagreeable questions in this 
unseasonable hour of your present misfortune. 

Oh ! my dear Simmias, replies Socrates, smil- 
ing, certainly I should find great difficulty in per- 
suading other men that I find no misfortune in 
my present circumstances, since I cannot get you 
to believe it. You think that, upon the score of 
foreknowledge and divining, I am infinitely infe- 
rior to the swans. When they perceive approach- 
ing death, they sing more sweetly than before, 
because of the joy they have in going to the God 
they serve. But men, through the fear of death, 
reproach the swans, in saying that they lament 



OF PLATO. 107 

their death, and tune their grief in sorrowful 
notes. They forget to make this reflection, — that 
no bird sings when it is hungry, or cold, or sad ; 
nay, not the nightingale, the swallow, or the lap- 
wing, whose music, they say, is a true lamenta- 
tion, and the effect of grief; but, after all, these 
birds do not all sing out of grief, and far less the 
swans 5 which, by reason of their belonging to 
Apollo, are diviners, and sing more joyfully on the 
day of their death than before, as foreseeing the 
good that awaits them in the other world. And 
as for me, I think I serve Apollo as well as they 
do : I am consecrated to that god as well as 
they; I have received from our common master 
the art of divining as well as they have; and I am 
as little concerned for making my exit as they 
are; so that you may freely propose what doubts 
you please, and put questions to me as long as 
the eleven magistrates suffer me to be here. 

You say well, Socrates, replies Simmias ; since 
it is so, I will propose my doubts first, and then 
Cebes shall give in his. I agree with you that it is 
impossible, or at least very difficult, to know the 
truth in this life ; and that it is the property of a 
lazy and a dull head not to weigh exactly what 
he says, or to supersede the examination be- 



108 THE PH^DON 

fore he has made all his efforts, and be obliged to 
give over by insurmountable difficulties. For one 
of these two things must be done: we must either 
learn the truth from others, or find it out our- 
selves. If both ways fail us, amidst all human 
reasons^ we must pitch upon the strongest and 
most forcible, and trust to that as to a ship while 
we pass through this stormy sea, and endeavour 
to avoid the tempests and shoals till we find out 
one more firm and sure ; such as a promise or 
revelation, upon which we may happily accom- 
plish the voyage of this life, as in a vessel that 
fears no danger. I shall therefore not be ashamed 
to put questions to you now that you allow me ; 
and shall avoid that reproach I might one day 
cast upon myself, of not having told you my 
thoughts upon this occasion. When I survey 
what you spoke to me and to Cebes, I must own 
1 do not think your proofs sufficient. 

Perhaps you have reason, my dear Simmias; 
but where does their insufficiency appear ? 

In this : that the same things might be asserted 
of the harmony of a harp. For one may rea- 
sonably say, that the harmony of a harp, well 
stringed and well tuned, is invisible, immaterial, 
excellent, and divine ; and that the instrument 



OF PLATO. 109 

and its strings are the body, the compounded, 
earthly, and mortal matter ; and if the instrument 
were cut in pieces, or its strings broken, might 
not one with equal reason affirm, that this har- 
mony remains after the breaking of the harp, and 
has no end ? For, since it is evident that the harp 
remains after the strings are broken ; or that the 
strings, which are likewise mortal, continue after 
the harp is broken or dismounted ; it must needs 
be impossible, might one say, that this immortal 
and divine harmony should perish before that 
which is mortal and earthly ; nay, it is necessary 
that this harmony should continue to be without 
the least damage, when the body of the harp and 
its strings are gone to nothing. For, without 
doubt, Socrates, you are sensible that we hold the 
soul to be something that resembles a harmony; 
and that as our body is a being composed of hot 
and cold, dry and moist, so our soul is nothing 
else but the harmony resulting from the just pro- 
portion of these mixed qualities. Now, if our soul 
is only a sort of harmony, itis evident that when our 
body is overstretched or unbended by disease, 
or any other disorder, of necessity our soul, with 
all its divinity, must come to an end, as well as 
the other harmonies which consist in sounds^ or 



HO THE PfLEDON 

are the effects of instruments ; and that the re- 
mains of every body continue for a considerable 
time, till they be burnt or mouldered away. This, 
you see, Socrates, might be alleged in opposition 
to your arguments ; that if the soul be only a 
mixture of the qualities of the body, it perisheth 
first in what we call death. Then Socrates looked 
upon us all, one after another, as he did often, 
and began to smile : Simmias speaks with reason, 
gays he ; his questions are well put ; and if any 
one of you have a greater dexterity in answer- 
ing his objections than I have, why do you not do 
it? for he seems thoroughly to understand both 
my arguments and the exceptions they are liable 
to. But, before we answer him, it is proper to 
hear what Cebes has to object ; that while he 
speaks, we may have time to think upon what 
we are to say ; and, after we have heard them 
both, that we may yield if their reasons are uni- 
form and valid; and if otherwise, may stand 
by our principles to the utmost. Tell us, then, 
Cebes, what it is that hinders you from agreeing 
with what 1 have laid down ? 

I will tell you, says Cebes : your demonstration 
seems to be lame and imperfect ; it is faulty upon 
the same head that we took notice of before* 



OF PLATO. 1 1 1 

That the soul has a being before its entrance into 
the body, is admirably well said, and, I think, 
sufficiently made out ; but I can never be per- 
suaded that it has likewise an existence after 
death. At the same time I cannot subscribe to 
Simmias's allegation, — that the soul is neither 
stronger nor more durable than the body ; for to 
me it appears to be infinitely more excellent. 
But why then, (says the objection,) do you refuse 
to believe it? Since you see with your eyes, that 
when a man is dead, his weakest part remains 
still, is it not therefore absolutely necessary 
that the more durable part should last yet longer ? 
Pray take notice if I answer this objection right ; 
for, to let you into my meaning, I must use re- 
semblance or comparison as well as Simmias. 
Your allegation, to my mind, is just the same as 
if, upon the death of an old tailor, one should say 
this tailor is not dead; he has a being still some 
where or other; and, for a proof of that, here is 
the suit of clothes he wore, which he made for 
himself; so that he is still in being. If any one 
should not be convinced by this proof, he would 
not fail to ask him whether the man or the clothes 
he wears is most durable ? To which, of neces- 
sity, he must answer that the man is ; and upon 



112 THE PEUEDON 

this footing your philosopher would pretend to 
demonstrate, that since the less durable posses- 
sion of the tailor is still in being, by a stronger 
consequence he himself is so too. Now, my dear 
Simmias, the parallel is not just: pray hear what 
I have to answer to it. 

It is evident, at first view, that the objection is 
ridiculous. For the tailor having used several 
suits of clothes, died after them, and only before 
the last suit, which he had not time to wear ; and 
though this suit survived the man, (if I may so 
speak,) yet we cannot say the man is weaker or 
less durable than the suit of clothes. This simile 
is near enough, — for as the man is to his suit of 
clothes, so is the soul to the body ; and whoever 
applies to the soul and body what is said of the 
man and his suit of clothes, will speak to the 
purpose. For he will make the soul more dur- 
able, and the body a weaker being, and less 
capable to hold out for a long time. He will add 
that every soul wears several bodies, especially 
if it lives several years ; for the body w T astes 
while the man is yet alive, and the soul still 
forms to itself a new habit of body out of the 
former that decays 5 but when the last comes to 
die, it has then its last habit on, and dies before 



OF PLATO. 113 

its consumption ; and when the soul is dead, the 
body quickly betrays the weakness of its nature, 
since it corrupts and moulders away very speed- 
ily ; so that we cannot put such confidence in your 
demonstration, as to hold it for a standing truth 
that our souls continue in being after death. For, 
supposing it were granted that our soul has not 
only a being antecedent to our birth, but that, 
for any thing we know, the souls of some continue 
in being after death, and it is very possible they 
may return again to this world, and be born 
again, so to speak, several times, and die at last; 
for the strength and advantage of the soul beyond 
the body consists in this, — that it can undergo se- 
veral births, and wear several bodies one after 
another, as a man does suits of clothes : suppos- 
ing, I say, that all this were granted, still it can- 
not be denied but that in all those repeated births 
it decays and wastes, and at last comes to an end 
in one of the deaths. However, it is impossible 
for any man to discern in which of the deaths it is 
totally sunk : since things stand thus, whoever 
does not fear death must be senseless ; unless he 
can demonstrate that the soul is altogether im- 
mortal and incorruptible. For otherwise every 
dying man must of necessity be afraid of his soul, 



H4 THE PHiEDON 

for fear the body it is quitting be its last body f 
and it perish without any hopes of return. 

Having heard them propose these objections, 
we were very much troubled, as we afterwards 
told them that at a time when we were just con- 
vinced by Socrates' arguments, they should come 
to amuse us with their objections, and throw us 
into a fit of unbelief and jealousy, not only of all 
that had been said to us by Socrates, but likewise 
of what he might say for the future ; for he would 
always be apt to believe that either we were not 
proper judges of the points in debate, or else that 
his propositions were in themselves incredible, 

Ech. Indeed, Phasdon ; I can easily pardon 
your trouble on that account. For I myself, while 
I heard you relate the matter, was saying to my- 
self, what shall we believe hereafter, since So. 
crates' arguments, which seemed so valid and 
convincing, are become doubtful and uncertain? 
In effect, that objection of Simmias, that the soul 
is only a harmony, moves me wonderfully, and 
always did so. It awakens in me the memory of 
my being formerly of the same opinion ; so that 
my belief is unhinged, and I want new proofs to 
convince me that the soul does not die with th€ 
body. Wherefore, prithee, tell me, Phsedon 3 



OF PLATO. 115 

in the name of God, how Socrates came off; whe- 
ther he seemed to be as much nettled as you ; or 
if he maintained his opinion with his wonted tem- 
per; and, in fine, whether his demonstration gave 
you full satisfaction, or seemed chargeable with 
imperfection. 

Pray tell me the whole story, without omitting 
the minutest circumstances. 

Phmdon. I protest to you, Echecrates, I ad- 
mired Socrates all my lifetime, and upon this 
occasion admired him more than ever. That 
such a man as he had his answers in readiness, is 
no great surprise; but my greatest admiration 
was to see, in the first place, with what calmness, 
patience, and good humour, he received the ob- 
jections of these youths ; and then how dexte- 
rously he perceived the impression they had made 
upon us, and cured us of the same. He rallied 
us like men put to flight after a defeat, and in- 
spired us with a fresh ardour, to turn our heads 
and renew the charge. 

Ech. How was that ? 

Ph. I am about to tell you. As I sat at his 
right hand, upon a little stool lower than his, 
he drew his hand over my head, and taking hold 
of my hair that hung down upon my shoulders, 



116 THE PHiEDON 

as he was wont to do for his diversion ; Phaedon, 
says he, will you cut this pretty hair to-morrow ? 
It is probable I shall, said I. If you take my ad- 
vice, said he, you will not stay so long. What do 
you mean ? said I. Both you and I, continues 
he, ought to cut our hair, if our opinion be so far 
dead that we cannot raise it again. Were I in 
your place, and defeated, I would make a vow ? 
(30) as the men of Argos did, never to wear my 
hair till I conquered these arguments of Simmias 
and Cebes. But, said I, Socrates, you have for- 
gotten the old proverb, that Hercules himself is 
not able to engage two ; and why, says he, do you 
call on me to assist you as your Iolas, while it is 
yet time? And accordingly I do call on you, said 
1 5 not as Hercules did, Iolas, but as Iolas did 
Hercules. It is no matter for that, says he 5 it is 
all one. Above all, let us be cautious to avoid 
one great fault. 4 What fault ? said I. That, said 
he, of being reason-haters ; for such there are, as 
well as man-haters. The former is the greatest 
evil in the world, and arises from the same source 
with the hatred of man. For the latter comes 
from one man's plighting his faith for another 
man, without any precaution or inquiry, whom 
he always took for a true-hearted, solid, and trusty 



OF PLATO. 117 

man ; but finds him at last to be a false and faith- 
less cheat: and thus, being cheated in several such 
instances by those whom he looked upon as his 
best friends, and at last weary of being so often 
deceived, he equally hates all men, and is con- 
vinced there is not one that is not wicked and 
perfidious. Are not you sensible that this man- 
hating is formed at this rate by degrees ? Yes, 
certainly. Is it not a great scandal, then conti- 
nued he, and a superlative crime, to converse with 
men without being acquainted with the art of 
trying and knowing them ? for if one were ac- 
quainted with this art, he would see how things 
stand, and would find that the good and the wicked 
are very rare; but those in the middle region 
swarm in infinite numbers. 

What do you say, Socrates ? 

I say, Phaedon, the case of the good and bad is 
much the same with that of very large or very 
little men. Do not you see that there is nothing 
more uncommon than a very big or a very little 
man? The case is the same with reference to 
dogs, horses, and ail other things ; and may like- 
wise be applied to swiftness and slowness, hand- 
someness and deformity, whiteness and blackness. 
Are not you convinced, that in all these matters 
11* 



118 THE PHiEDON 

the two extremes are very uncommon, and the 
medium is very common ? 

I perceive it very plainly, Socrates. 

If a match were proposed for wickedness, would 
there not be very few that could pretend to the 
first rank ? 

That is very likely, Socrates. 

It is certainly so, replies he ; but upon this 
score the case of reason and man is not exactly 
the same, I will follow you step by step. The 
only resemblance of the two, lies in this, that when 
a man, unskilled in the art of examination, enter- 
tains a reason as true, and afterwards finds it to 
be false, whether it be so in itself or not ; and 
when the same thing happens to him often, as 
indeed to those who amuse themselves in dis- 
puting with the Sophists that contradict every 
thing ; he at last believes himself to be extraor- 
dinarily well skilled, and fancies he is the only 
man that has perceived there is nothing true or 
certain, either in things or reasons ; but that all 
is like Eurypus, in a continual flux and reflux, 
and that nothing continues so much as one mi- 
nute in the same state. 

This is the pure truth, Socrates. 

Is it not then a very deplorable misfortune, my 



OF PLATO. 119 

dear Phasdon, that while there are true, certain, 
and very comprehensible reasons, there should be 
men found who, after they have suffered them to 
pass, call them again in question upon hearing 
these frivolous disputes, where sometimes truth 
and sometimes falsehood comes uppermost ; and, 
instead of charging themselves with these doubts, 
or blaming their want of art, cast the blame at last 
upon the reasons themselves ; and, being of a sour 
temper, pass their life in hating and calumniating 
all reason, and by that means rob themselves both 
of truth and knowledge ? 

That is certainly a most deplorable thing, 
said I. 

We ought to be very cautious, continues he, 
that this misfortune be notour lot, and that we are 
not prepossessed by this thought, — that there is 
nothing solid or true in all arguments whatsoever. 
We should rather be persuaded that it is our- 
selves who are wanting in solidity and truth, and 
use our utmost efforts to recover that solidity and 
justness of thought. This is a duty incumbent 
upon you, who have time yet to live, and likewise 
upon me who am about to die ; and I am much 
afraid, that upon this occasion I have been so far 
from acting the part of a true philosopher, that I 



120 ^ HE PHiEDOtf 

have behaved myself like a disputant, over- 
born with prejudice; as all those ignorants do, 
who in their disputes do not mind the percep- 
tion of the truth, but mean only to draw their 
hearers over to their opinions. The only differ- 
ence between them and me is, that convincing 
my audience of the truth of what I advance, is not 
my only aim ; indeed, I shall be infinitely glad if 
that come to pass : but my chief scope is to per- 
suade myself of the truth of these things ; for I ar- 
gpe thus, my dear Phaedon, and you will find that 
this way of arguing is highly useful. If (31) my 
propositions prove true, it is well done to believe 
them ; and if, after my death, they be found false, 
I still reap that advantage in this life, that I have 
been less affected by the evils which commonly 
accompany it. But I shall not remain long under 
this ignorance 5 if I were, I should reckon it a great 
misfortune ; but by good luck it will quickly be 
dispelled. Being fortified by these thoughts, my 
dear Simmias and Cebes, I make account to an- 
swer your objections ; and if you take my advice, 
you will rely less upon the authority of Socrates 
than that of the truth. If what I am about to ad- 
vance appear to be true, embrace it ; if otherwise, 
attack it with all your force. Thus I shall nei- 



OF PLATO. 121 

ther deceive myself nor impose upon you by the 
influence of zeal and good- will, or quit you like a 
a wasp that leaves its sting in the wound it has 
made. 

To begin, then, pray see if I remember right 
what was objected. Simmias, as I take it, rejects 
our belief only because he fears our souls, not- 
withstanding their being divine and more excel- 
lent, will die before our bodies, as being only a 
sort of harmony ; and Cebes, if 1 mistake not, 
granted that the soul is more durable than the 
body ; but thinks it possible that the soul, after 
having used several bodies, may die at last when 
it quits the last body, and that this death of the 
soul is a true death. Are not these the two points 
I am to examine, my dear Simmias and Cebes ? 

When they had all agreed that the objections 
were justly summed up, he continued thus: do 
you absolutely reject all that I have said, or do 
you acknowledge part of it to be true ? They 
answered, that they did not reject the whole. 
But what, says he, is your opinion of what I told 
you ? viz. that learning is only remembrance, and 
that, by a necessary consequence, the soul must 
have an existence before its conjunction with tht 
body. 



122 THE PHJEDON 

As for me, replies Cebes, I perceive the evi- 
dence of it at first view ; and do not know any 
principles of more certainty and truth. I am of 
the same mind, says Simmias, and should think it 
very strange if ever I changed my opinion. 

But, my dear Theban, continues Socrates, you 
must needs change it; if you retain your opinion 
that harmony is compounded, and that the soul 
is only a sort of harmony arising from the due 
union of the qualities of the body : for it is pre- 
sumed you would not believe yourself if you said 
that harmony has a being before those things 
of which it is composed. 

Sure enough, replies Simmias 5 I would not be- 
lieve myself if I did. 

Do not you see, then continues^ Socrates, that 
you are not of a piece with yourself when you say 
the soul had a being before it came to animate 
the body, and at the same time that it is com- 
pounded of things that had not then an existence ? 
Do not you compare the soul to a harmony ? and 
is it not evident that the harp, the strings, and the 
very discordant sound, exist before the harmony, 
which is an effect that results from all these 
things, and perish sooner than they ? Does this 
latter part of your discourse suit with the first ? 



OF PLATO. 123 

Not at all, replies Simmias. 

And yet, continues Socrates, if ever a discourse 
be all of a piece, it ought to be such when har- 
mony is its subject. 

That is right, says Simmias. 

But yours is not so, continues Socrates. Let 
us hear, then, which of these two opinions you side 
with: — whether is learning only remembrance, or 
is the soul a sort of harmony ? 

I side with the first, replies Simmias. 

And that opinion, says Socrates, I have ex- 
plained to you, without having any recourse 
to demonstration full of similes and examples, 
which are rather colours of the truth, and 
therefore please the people best; but as for 
me, I am of opinion that all discourses proving 
their point by similes, are full of vanity, and apt 
to seduce and deceive, unless one be very cau- 
tious, whether it relate to geometry or any other 
science: whereas the discourse that I made for 
proving that knowledge is remembrance, is 
grounded upon a very creditable hypothesis ; for 
I told you that the soul exists as well as its es- 
sence, before it comes to animate the body. By 
essence I mean the principles from which it de- 



124 THE PHiEDON 

rives its being, which has no other name, but 
that which is ; and this proof I take to be good 
and sufficient. 

By that reason, says Simmias, I must not listen 
either to myself or others, who assert the soul to 
be a sort of harmony. 

In earnest, Simmias, replies Socrates, do you 
think that a harmony, or any other piece of com- 
position, can be any thing different from the parts 
of which it is compounded 1 

By no means, Socrates. 

Or can it do or suffer what those parts do not? 

Simmias answered it could not. 

Then, says Socrates, a harmony does not pre- 
cede but follow the things it is composed of: and 
it cannot have sounds, motions, or any thing else 
contrary to its parts. 

Certainly not, replies Simmias. 

But what, continues Socrates, is not all har- 
mony only, such in proportion to the concord of 
its parts ? 

1 do not fully understand you, says Simmias. 

I mean, according as the parts have more or 
less concord, the harmony is more or less a har- 
mony, — is it not? 

Yes, certainly. 



OF PLATO. 137 

bones to the flesh and skin, which receive and 

include both the one and the other ; that the 

bones being disengaged at the joints, the nerves, 

which bend and unbend, enable me to fold my 

legs as you see 5 and that, forsooth, is the reason 

that I sit in this posture. Or if a man pretending 

to assign the cause of my present conference 

with you, should insist only Upon the second 

causes, the voice, the air, hearing, and such other 

things, and should take no notice of the true 

cause, viz. that the Athenians thought it fit to 

condemn me, and that by the same reason I 

thought it fittest for me to be here, and patiently 

wait the execution of my sentence ; for I can 

safely swear that these nerves and these bones 

should long ere now have been translated to Me- 

gara, or Bosotia, if that had been fitter for me, 

and if I had not been still persuaded that it was 

better for me to endure the punishment I am 

doomed to by my countrymen, than to flee like a 

slave or a banished person. As I take it, it is 

highly ridiculous to assign such causes upon such 

an occasion, and to rest satisfied in them. 

If it be replied, that without bones and nerves, 

and such other things I could not do what I mean 

to do, the allegation is true. But it savours of 
13 



138 THE PILEDON 

the greatest absurdity to fancy that these bones 
or nerves should be the cause of my actions, 
rather than the choice of what is best ; and that 
my intellect is employed on that score : for that 
were to sink the difference between the cause 
and the effect, without which the cause could not 
be such. And yet the vulgar people, who take 
things by hearsay, and see by other people's eyes, 
as if they walked in thick darkness, take the true 
sense of things to be of that nature. Pursuant 
to this notion, some surround the earth with a 
vortex that turns eternally round, and suppose it 
to be fixed in the centre of the universe : others 
conceive it to be a broad and large trough, which 
has the air for its base and foundation. And as 
for the power of him who ranked and disposed 
of every thing to its best advantage, that is not 
in their view, and they do not believe that he is 
entitled to any divine virtue. They fancy they 
know of a stronger and more immortal Atlas, bet- 
ter able to support all things. And this good and 
immortal bond, that is only capable to unite and 
comprehend all things, they take for a Chimera* 
I am of their mind, but would willingly enlist 
myself a disciple to any that could tell me this 
cause, let it be what it will. But since I could 



OF PLATO. 139 

not compass the knowledge of it, neither by my- 
self nor others, if you please I will give you an 
account of a second trial I made in order to find 
it. I am very desirous to hear it, says Cebes. 

After I had wearied myself in examining all 
things, I thought it my duty to be cautious of 
avoiding what happens to those whoxontemplate 
an eclipse of the sun ; for they lose the sight of 
it, unless they be careful to view its reflections in 
water or any other medium. A thought much 
like to that came into my head, and I feared I 
should lose the eyes of my soul if I viewed objects 
with the eyes of my body, or employed any of 
my senses in endeavouring to know them. I 
thought I should have recourse to reason, and 
contemplate the truth of all things as reflected 
from it. It is possible the simile I use in explain 
ing myself is not very just: for I cannot affirm 
that he who beholds things in the glass of reason, 
sees them more by reflection and similitude than 
he who beholds them in their operations. How- 
ever, the way I followed was this : from that time 
forward I grounded all upon the reason that seem- 
ed the best, and took all for truth that I found 
conformable to it, whether in effects or causes ; 
and what was not conformable I rejected, as be- 



140 THE PHiEDON 

ing false. I will explain my meaning more dis- 
tinctly, for I fancy you do not yet understand 
me. 

I for my part, says Cebes, do not well under- 
stand you. 

But after all, says Socrates, I advance no new 
thing. This is no more than what I have said a 
thous and times, and particularly in the foregoing 
dispute : for all that I aim at is to demonstrate 
what sort of a cause this is that I sought after so 
carefully. I begin with his qualities, which are 
so much talked of, and which I take for the foun- 
dation. 

I say, then, there is something that is good, fine 9 
just, and great, of itself. If you grant me this 
principle, I hope by it to demonstrate the cause, 
and make out the immortality of the soul. 

I grant it, says Cebes : you cannot be too quick 
in perfecting your demonstration. 

Mind what follows, and see if you agree to it 
as I take it: if there is any thing fine besides fine- 
ness itself, it must be such by partaking of that 
first good : and so of all the other qualities. 

Are you of this opinion ? 

I am. 

I protest, continues Socrates, I cannot well un- 



OF PLATO. 141 

derstand all the other learned causes that are com- 
monly given us. But if any man ask me what 
makes a thing fine, — whether the brilliancy of its 
colours, or the just proportion of its parts and 
the like, I wave all these plausible reasons which 
serve to confound me ; and without ceremony or 
art, make answer, and perhaps too simply, that its 
fineness is only owing to the presence, or ap- 
proach, or communication of the original fine be- 
ing, whatever be the way of that communication : 
for I am not yet certain in what manner it is ; I 
only know certainly, that all these fine things are 
rendered such by the presence of this fine being. 
While I stand by this principle, I reckon I cannot 
be deceived; and I am persuaded that I may 
safely make answer to all questions whatsoever, 
that all fine things owe their fineness to the pre- 
sence of the above-mentioned being. Are not 
you of,, the same mind ? 

Yes, certainly, Socrates. 

Are not great and small things rendered such in 

like manner? If one told you that such a thing 

is larger than another by the head, would not 

you think the expression far from being correct 1 

and would not you make answer, that whatever 

is larger, is rendered such by magnitude itself; 
13* 



142 THE PILEDON 

and what is smaller, owes its littleness to littleness 
itself ? For if you said that such a thing is 
greater or smaller than another by the head, 1 
fancy you would fear being censured for making 
both the greater and less thing to be such by 
the same cause ; and besides, for using such an 
expression as seems to imply that the head, which 
is a small part, makes the largeness of the greater, 
which in effect is a monster; for what can be more 
absurd than to say, that a small matter makes a 
thing large ? would not you fear such objections ? 
Yes, certainly, replies Cebes smiling. 
By the same reason, would not you be afraid 
to say, that ten is more than eight and surpasses 
it by two ? And would not you rather say, that 
ten are more than eight by quantity? In like 
manner, of two cubits, would not you say they 
are larger than one by magnitude, rather than by 
the half? For still there is the same occasion of 
fear. 

You say truly. 

But when one is added to one, or a thing divid- 
ed into halves, would not you avoid saying, that 
in the former case addition makes one and one 
two ? and in the latter, division makes one thing 
become two ? and would not you protest that you 



OF PLATO. 143 

know no other cause of the existence of things 
than the participation of the essence that is pe- 
culiar to every subject ; and consequently no 
other reason why one and one makes two, but the 
participation of duality, as one is one by the par- 
ticipation of unity? Would not you discard these 
additions, divisions, and all the other fine answers, 
and leave them to those who know more than you 
do ? And, for fear of your own shadow, as the *' 
proverb goes, or rather of your ignorance, would 
not you confine yourself to this principle? And 
if any one attacked it, would not you let it stand 
without deigning him an answer till you had sur- 
veyed all the consequences, to see if they are of 
a piece or not? And if afterwards you should 
be obliged to give a reason for them, would not 
you do it by having recourse to some of these 
other hypotheses, that should appear to be the 
best; and so proceed from hypothesis to hypothe- 
sis, till you lighted upon something that satisfied 
you as being a sure and standing truth ? At the 
same time you would not perplex and confound 
all things, as those disputants do who call every 
thing in question. It is true, these disputants 
perhaps are not much concerned for the truth ; 
and by thus mingling and perplexing all things by 



144 THE PILEDON 

an effect of their profound knowledge, they are 
sure to please themselves. But as for you, if you 
are true philosophers, you will do as 1 say. 

Simmias and Cebes jointly replied that he said 
well. 

Echer. Indeed, Phaedon, I think it no wonder ; 
for to my mind Socrates explained his principles 
with a wonderful neatness, sufficient to make an 
impression upon any man of common sense. 

Phaed. All the audience thought the same. 

Echer. Even we, who have it only at second 
hand, find it so. But what was said next ? 

Phaed. If I remember right, after they had 
granted that the species of things have a real 
subsistence, and that the things participating in 
their nature take their denomination from them; 
then, I say, Socrates interrogated Cebes as fol- 
lows: 

If your principle be true, when you say Sim- 
mias is larger than Socrates and less than Phe- 
don.; do not you imply that both magnitude and 
littleness are lodged at the same time in Simmias ? 

Yes, replies Cebes. 

But do you not own that this proposition, Sim- 
mias is larger than Socrates, is not absolutely and 



OF PLATO. 145 

in itself true? For Simmias is not larger because 
he is Simmias, but because he is possessed of mag- 
nitude. Neither is he larger than Socrates, be- 
cause Socrates is Socrates, but because Socrates 
has littleness in comparison with the magnitude 
of Simmias. Neither is Simmias less than Phaedon 
because Phaedon is Phaedon, but because Phaedon 
is large when compared with Simmias who is little. 

That is true. 

Thus, continues Socrates, Simmias is called both 
big and little, as being between two ; by partak- 
ing of bigness he is larger than Socrates, and by 
partaking also of littleness he is less than Phaedon. 
Then he smiled, and said> I believe I have insist- 
ed too long on these things 5 but I should not have 
amused myself with these large strokes, had it 
not been to convince you more effectu ally of the 
truth of my principle ; for, as I take it, not only 
magnitude itself cannot be at the same time big 
and small ; but besides, the magnitude that is in 
us does not admit of littleness, and has no mind to be 
surpassed; for either the magnitude flees and yields 
its place when it sees its enemy approaching, or else 
it vanishes and perishes entirely ; and when once 
it has received it, it desires to continue as it is. 
As I, for instance, having received littleness while 



146 THE PH^DON 

I am as you see me, cannot but be little ; for that 
which is big does never attempt to be little ; and 
in like manner, littleness never encroaches upon 
magnitude. In one word, any of the contraries, 
while it is what it is, is never to be found with its 
contrary ; but either disappears or perishes when 
the others come in. 

Cebes agreed to it. But one of the company, 
I forget who, addressed himself to Socrates thus : 
In the name of all the gods, did you not say con- 
trary to what you now advance ? Did not you 
conclude upon this, that greater things take rise 
from the less, and the less from the greater; and, 
in a word, that contraries do still produce their 
contraries ? Whereas now f as I take it, you aljedge 
that can never be. 

Whereupon Socrates put his head further out 
of the bed, and having heard the objection, said 
to him, indeed you do well to put us in mind of 
what we said, but you do not perceive the differ- 
ence between the former and the latter. In the 
former, we asserted that every contrary owes its 
being to its contrary ; and in the latter, we teach 
that a contrary is never opposed to itself, neither 
in us nor in the course of nature. There we 
spoke of things that had contraries, meaning to 



OF PLATO. 147 

call every one of them by their proper names ; 
but here we speak of such things as give a denomi- 
nation to their subjects, which we told you could 
never admit of their contraries. Then turning 
to Cebes, did not this objection, says he, likewise 
give you some trouble ? 

No indeed, Socrates, replies Cebes ; I can as- 
sure you that few things are capable to trouble me 
at present. 

Then we are agreed upon this simple proposi- 
tion, says Socrates, that a contrary can never be 
opposed to itself. 

That is true, says Cebes. 

But what do you say to this ? Is cold and heat 
any thing ? 

Yes, certainly. 

What, is it like snow and fire ? 

Certainly not, Socrates. 

Then you own that heat is different from fire, 
and cold from snow ? 

Without doubt, Socrates. 

I believe you will likewise own, that when the 
snow receives heat, it is no more what it was, but 
either gives way or completely disappears when 
the heat approaches. In like manner the fire will 
either yield or be extinguished when the cold 



148 THE PHJEDON 

prevails npon it; for then it cannot be fire and 
cold together. 

It is so, says Cebes. 

There are also some contraries that not only 
give name to their species, but likewise impart it 
to other things different from it, which preserve 
its figure and form while they have a being. For 
instance, must not an odd number have always 
the same name ? 

Yes, certainly. 

Is that the only thing that is so called ? Or is 
not there some other thing different from it, which 
must be called by the same name because it be- 
longs to its nature never to be without odds ? For 
instance, must not the ternary number be called 
not only by its own name, but likewise by the 
name of an odd number; though at the same time 
to be odd and to be three are two different things 
Now such is the nature of the number three, five, 
and all other odd numbers; each of them is al- 
ways odd, and yet their nature is not the same 
with the nature of the odd. In like manner, even 
numbers, such as two, four, eight, are all of them 
even, though at the same time their nature is not 
that of the even. Do not you own this ? 

How can I do otherwise, says Cebes? 



OF PLATO. 149 

Pray mind what I infer from thence. It is, that 
not only those contraries, which are incapable of 
receiving their contraries, but all other things 
which are not opposite one to another, and yet 
have always their contraries; all these things, I 
say, are incapable of receiving a form opposite to 
their ow r n, and either disappear or perish upon 
the appearance of the opposite form. For in- 
stance, number three will sink a thousand times 
rather than become an even number, while it con- 
tinues to be three. Is it not so ? 

True, replies Cebes. 

But, after all, says Socrates, two are not con- 
trary to three. 

Certainly not. 

Then the contrary species are not the only 
things that refuse admission to their contraries ; 
since, as you see, other things that are not con- 
trary, cannot abide the approach of that which 
has the least shadow of contrariety. 

That is certain. 

Do you desire, then, that I should define them 
as near as possible ? 

With all my heart, Socrates. 

Must not contraries be such things as give such 
a form to that in which they are lodged, that it is 
14 



150 THE PELEDON 

not capable of giving admission to another thing 
that is contrary to them ? 

What do you mean? 

I say, as I said but now, wherever the idea or 
form of three is lodged, that thing must of neces- 
sity continue, not only three, but to be odd. 

Who doubts that? I $ 

And, in course, it is impossible for the idea or 
form that is contrary to its constituent form ever 
to approach. 

That case is plain. 

Well, is not the constituted form an odd? 

Yes. 

Is not even the form that is contrary to the odd ? 

Yes. 

Then the form of even is never lodged in three ? 

Certainly not. 

Then three is incapable of being even ? 

Most certainly. 

And that because three is odd ? 

Yes. 

Now this is the conclusion I intended to prove? 
that some things, not contrary to one another, 
are as incapable of that other thing as if it were 
truly a contrary; as, for instance, though three 
is not contrary to an even number, yet it can ne- 



OF PLATO. 151 

ver admit of it. For two brings always something 
contrary to an odd number, like fire to cold, and 
several other things. Would not you agree then 
to this definition — that a contrary does not only re- 
fuse admission to its contrary, but likewise to that 
which, being not contrary, brings upon it some- 
thing of a contrary nature, which by that sort of 
contrariety destroys its form ? 

I pray you let me hear that again, says Cebes, 
for it is worth while to hear it often. 

I say, number five will never be an even num- 
ber; just as ten, which is its double, will never be 
odd; no more three fourths, or a third part, or 
any other part of a whole, will never admit of the 
form and idea of the whole. Do you not under- 
stand me ? And do you agree with what I say ? 

I understand you, and I agree with you too. 

Since you understand me, says Socrates, pray 
answer me as I do you ; that is, answer me not 
what 1 ask, but something else, according to the 
idea and example I have given you ; I mean, that 
besides the true and certain way of answering 
spoken of already, I have yet another in my view 
that springs from that, and is fully as sure. For 
instance, if you ask me what it is, that being in my 
body, makes it hot, I would not give you this ig- 



152 THE PHJEDON 

norant though true answer, — that it is heat ; but 
would draw a more particular answer from what 
we have been saying, and would tell you that it 
is fire. And if you should ask what it is that 
makes the body sick, I would not say it was the 
sickness, but the fever. If you ask me what 
makes a number odd, I would not tell you that it 
is the oddness, but unity, and so of the rest. 

Do you understand what I mean? 

I understand you perfectly well, replies Cebes. 

Answer me, then, continues Socrates, what 
makes the body live? 

The soul. 

Is the soul always the same ? 

How should it be otherwise. 

Does the soul, then, carry life along with it into 
all the bodies it enters ? 

Most certainly. 

Is there any thing that is contrary to life, or is 
there nothing ? 

Yes, Death is the contrary of life. 

Then the soul will never receive that which is 
contrary to what it carries in its bosom? That 
is a necessary consequence from our principles. 

It is a plain consequence, says Cebes. 

But what riame do we give to that which re- 



OF PLATO. 153 

fuses admission to the idea and form of even- 
ness? 

It is the odd number. ^ 

How do we call that which never receives jus- 
tice, and that which never receives good ? 

The one is called injustice, and the other evil. 

And how do we call that which never admits 
of death ? 

Immortal. 

Does the soul admit of death ? 

No. 

Then the soul is immortal. 

Most certainly. 

Is that fully demonstrated, or was the demon- 
stration imperfect ? 

It is fully made out, Socrates. 

If an odd number of necessity were incorrup- 
tible, would not three be so too ? 

Without doubt ? 

If whatever is without heat were necessarily 
incorruptible? would not snow, when put to the 
fire, withdraw itself safe from the danger? For 
since it cannot perish, it will never receive the 
heat, notwithstanding its being held to the fire. 

What you say is true. 

In like manner, if that which is not susceptible 
14* 



154 THE PILEDON 

of cold, were by a natural necessity exempted 
from perishing, though a whole river were thrown 
upon the fire, it would never go out ; but, on the 
contrary, would come off with its full force. 

There is an absolute necessity for that, says 
Cebes. 

Then of course we must say the same of what 
is immortal ; if that which is immortal is incor- 
ruptible, though death approach to the soul, it 
shall never fall in the attack. For, as we said 
but now, the soul will never receive death, and 
will never die, just as three, or any odd number, 
will never be even ; fire will never be cold, nor 
its heat be turned into coldness. 

Perhaps some may answer, that it is true the 
odd can never become even by the accession of 
what is even while it continues odd ; but what 
would hinder the even to take up the room of the 
odd when it comes to perish ? To this objection 
it cannot be answered that the odd does not pe- 
rish, for it is not incorruptible. Had we establish- 
ed its incorruptibility, we should justly have 
maintained, that, notwithstanding the attacks of 
the even, the odd of three would still come off 
without loss ; and we should have asserted the 
same of fire, heat, and such other things, should 
not we ? 



OF PLATO. 155 

Most certainly, says Cebes. 

And of course, if we agree upon this — that every 
immortal thing is incorruptible ; it will then follow, 
not only that the soul is immortal, but that it is 
incorruptible; and if we cannot agree upon that, 
we must look out for another proof. 

There is no occasion for that, Socrates, replies 
Cebes ; for what is it that should avoid corrup- 
tion and death, if an immortal and eternal being 
be liable to them? 

All the world will agree, says Socrates, that 
God, and life itself, and whatever else is immortal, 
does not perish. 

At least, says Cebes, ajl men will profess so. 

The course is absolutely necessary and certain. 
And, continues Socrates, when a man comes to 
die, his mortal and corruptible part dies ; but the 
immortal part goes off safe, and triumphs over 
death. 

That is plain and evident. 

Then, my dear Cebes, if there be any such 
thing as an immortal and incorruptible being, 
such is the soul ; and of course our souls shall 
live hereafter. 

1 have nothing to object, says Cebes, and can- 
not but yield to your arguments. But if Siramias, 



156 THE PHjEDON 

or any of the company, has any thing to offer, they 
will do well not to stifle it ; for when will they 
find another occasion for discoursing and satisfy- 
ing themselves upon these important subjects? 

For my part, says Simmias, I cannot but sub- 
scribe to what Socrates has said ; but 1 own that 
the greatness of the subject, and the natural 
weakness of man, cause within me a sort of dis- 
trust and incredulity. 

You have not only spoken well, says Socrates ; 
but besides, notwithstanding the apparent cer- 
tainty of our first hypothesis, it is necessary you 
should reconsider them, in order to a more leisure- 
ly view, and to convince yourself more clearly 
and effectually. If you understand them suffi- 
ciently, you will readily second my thoughts as 
much as is possible for a man to do ; and when 
you are once fully convinced, you will need no 
other proof. 

That is well said, replies Cebes. 

There is one thing more, my friends, that is a 
very just thought, viz. that if the soul is immor- 
tal, it stands in need of cultivation and improve- 
ment, not only in the time that we call the time of 
life ; but for the future, or what we call the time 
of eternity. For if you think justly upon this 



OF PLATO. 157 

point, you will find it very dangerous to neglect 
the soul. Were death the dissolution of the 
whole man, it would be a (34) great advantage to 
the wicked after death, to be rid at once of their 
body, their soul, and their vices. But forasmuch 
as#he soul is immortal the only way to avoid 
those evils and obtain salvation, is to become good 
and wise. For it carries nothing along with it, 
but its good or bad actions, and its virtues or 
vices, which are the cause of its eternal happiness 
or misery, commencing from the first minute of 
its arrival in the other world. And it is said, 
that after the death of every individual person, 
the demon or genius that was partner with it, and 
conducted it during life, leads it to a certain place, 
where all the dead are obliged to appear in order 
to be judged, and from thence are conducted by 
a guide to the world below. And after they have 
there received their good or bad deserts, and 
continued there their appointed time, another 
conductor brings them back to this life, after 
several revolutions of ages. Now this road 
is not a plain road, else there would be no 
occasion for guides, and nobody miss their 
way. But there are several by-ways and cross- 
ways, as I conjecture from the method of our 
sacrifices and religious cerera*»ips. So that 



158 THE PKUEDON 

a temperate wise soul follows its guide, and is not 
ignorant of what happens to it ; but the soul, that 
is nailed to its body, as I said just now, that is in- 
flamed with the love of it, and has been long its 
slave, after much struggling and suffering in this 
visible world, is at last dragged along against its 
will by the demon allotted for its guide. And 
when it arrives at that fatal rendezvous of all 
souls, if it has been guilty of any impurity, or 
polluted with murder, or has committed any of 
those atrocious crimes, that desperate and lost 
souls are commonly guilty of, the other souls ab- 
hor it and avoid its company. It finds neither 
companion nor guide, but wanders in a fearful 
solitude and horrible desert ; till after a certain 
time necessity drags it into the mansions it de- 
serves. Whereas the temperate and pure soul 
has the gods themselves for its guides and con- 
ductors, and goes to cohabit with them in the 
mansions of pleasure prepared for it. For my 
friends there are several marvellous places in the 
earth ; and it is not at all such as the describers 
of it are wont to make it, (35) as I was taught it 
by one who knew very well. 

What do you say, Socrates ? says Simmias, in- 
terrupting him, I have heard several things of the 



OF PLATO. 15g 

1 earth, but not what you have heard. Wherefore 
I wish you would be pleased to tell us what you 
know. 

To recount that to you, my dear Simmias, I do 
not believe we have any occasion for the art of 
Glau<*is. (3 6) But to make out the truth of it, is. a 
more difficult matter, and I question if all the art 
of Glaucus can reach it. Such an attempt is not 
only above my reach ; but supposing it were not, 
the short time I have left me, will not suffer me to 
embark in so long a discourse. All that I can do 
is, to give you a general idea of this earth, and 
the places it contains. 

That will be enough, says Simmias. 

In the first place, continues Socrates, I am per- 
suaded, that if the earth is placed in the middle 
of heaven, (the air,) as they say it is, it stands in 
no need of air, or any other support to prevent its 
fall. For heaven itself is wrapped equally about 
it, and its own equilibrium is sufficient to keep it 
up. For whatever is equally poised in the mid- 
d}e of any thing that presses equally upon it cai> 
not incline to either side, and consequently stands 
firm and immoveable. This I am convinced of. 

You have every reason to be so, replies Sim- 
mias. 



160 THE PH.EDON 

I am farther persuaded, that the earth is very 
large and spacious, and that we only inhabit that 
part of it which reaches from the river Phasis to 
the Straits of Gibralter, upon which we are scat- 
tered like so many 7 ants dwelling in holes, or Jike 
frogs that reside in some marsh near the sea. 
There are several other nations that inhabit its 
own parts that are unknown to us ; for all over 
the earth there are holes of all sizes and figures 
always filled with gross air, and covered with 
thick clouds, and overflowed by the waters that 
rush in on all sides. 

There is another pure earth above the pure 
heaven where the stars are, which is commonly 
called aether. The earth we inhabit is properly 
nothing else than the sediment of the other, and 
its grosser part which flows continually into those 
holes. We are immured in those cells, though 
we are not sensible of it, and fancy we inhabit the 
upper part of the pure earth ; much after the same 
rate, as if one living in the depths of the sea, 
should fancy his habitation to he above the wa- 
ters ; and when he sees the sun and stars through 
the waters, should fancy the sea to be the hea- 
vens, and by reason of his heaviness and weak- 
ness, having never put forth his head or raised 



OF PLATO. 16! 

himself above the waters, should never know that 
the place we inhabit is purer and finer than his, 
and should never meet with any person to inform 
him. This is just our condition, we are mewed 
up within some hole of the earth, and fancy we 
live at the top of all, we take the air for the true 
heavens, in which the stars run their rounds. And 
the cause of our mistake, is our heaviness and 
weakness, that keep us from surmounting this 
thick and muddy air. If any could mount up with 
wings to the upper surface, he would no sooner 
put his head out of this gross air, than he would 
behold what is transacted in those blessed man- 
sions; just as the fishes skipping above the sur- 
face of the water, see what is done in the air in 
which we breathe, and if he were a man fit for 
long contemplation, he would find it to be the true 
heaven and the true light; in a word, to be the 
true earth. For this earth that we inhabit, these 
stones, and all these places are entirely corrupted 
and gnawed, just as whatever is in the sea is cor- 
roded by the sharpness of the salts. And the sea 
produces nothing that is perfect or valuable. It 
contains nothing but caves and mud; and wher- 
ever any ground is found, there is nothing but 
deep sloughs, nothing comparable to what we have 

15 



162 THE PILEDON 

here. Now the things in the other mansions are 
more above what we have here, than what we 
have here is above what we meet with in the sea. 
And in order to make you conceive the beauty of 
this pure earth, situated in the heavens, if you 
please, I will tell you an interesting story that 
is worth your hearing. 

We shall hear it, says Simmias, with a great 
deal of pleasure. 

First of all, my dear Simmias, continues Soc- 
rates, if one looks upon this earth from at high 
place, they say, it looks like one of our packages 
covered with twelve bands of different colours. 
For it is varied with a great number of different 
colours, of which those made use of by our pain- 
ters are but sorry patterns. For the colours of 
this earth are infinitely more pure and lively. One 
is an admirable purple, another a yellow, more 
sparkling than gold itself, a third a white, more 
lively than the snow, and so on of all the others, 
the beauty whereof leaves all our colours far be- 
hind it. The chinks of this earth are filled with 
water and air, which make up an infinity of ad- 
mirable shadows, so wonderfully diversified by 
that infinite variety of colours. In this earth, 
every thing has a perfection answerable to its 



OF PLATO. 163 

qualities. The trees, flowers, fruits, and moun- 
tains are charmingly beautiful ; they produce all 
sorts of precious stones of incomparable perfec- 
tion, clearness, and splendour; those we esteem 
so much here, such as emeralds, jasper, and sap- 
phire, are but small parcels of them. 

There is not one in that blessed earth that is 
not infinitely more pretty than any of ours. The 
cause of all which is, that all these precious stones 
are pure, neither gnawed nor spoiled by the aci- 
dity of the salts, nor the corruption of the sedi- 
ment or dregs that fall from thence into our lower 
earth, where they assemble, and infect not only 
the stones and the earth, but the plants and ani- 
mals, with all sorts of pollution and disease. 

Besides all these beauties now mentioned, this 
blessed earth is enriched with gold and silver, 
which being scattered all over in great abund- 
ance, casts forth a charming splendour on all 
sides; so that a sight of this earth is a view of the 
blessed. It is inhabited by all sorts of animals, 
and by men, some of whom are cast into the cen- 
tre of the earth, and others are scattered about 
the air, as we are about the sea. There are some 
also that inhabit the isles, formed by the air near 
the continent. For there the air is the same 



164 THE PHjEDON 

thing that water and the sea are here ; and the 
aether does them the same service that the air 
does to us. Their seasons are so admirably well 
tempered, that their life is much longer than ours, 
and always free from distempers ; and as for their 
sight, hearing, and all their other senses, and even 
their intellect itself, they surpass us as far as the 
aether they breathe in exceeds our gross air for 
simplicity and purity. They have sacred groves, 
and temples actually inhabited by the gods, who 
give evidence of their presence by oracles, divi- 
nations, inspirations, and all other sensible signs, 
and who converse with them. They see the sun 
and moon, without any intervening medium, and 
view the stars as they are in themselves. And 
all the other branches of their felicity are propor- 
tional to these. 

This is the situation of that earth, and this is the 
matter of all that surrounds it. All about it there 
are several abysses in its cavities, some of which 
are deeper and more open than the country we 
inhabit; others are deeper, but not so open ; and 
some again have a more extensive breadth but a 
less depth. All these abysses are bored through 
in several parts, and have pipes communicating 
one with another, through which there runs, just 



OF PLATO. 165 

as in the caves of Mount iEtna, a vast quantity of 
water, very large and deep rivers, springs of cold 
and hot waters, fountains, and rivers of fire, and 
other rivers of mud, some thinner and some thick, 
er, and more muddy, like those torrents of mud 
and fire that are cast out from the mouth of Mount 
vEtna. These abysses are filled with these wa- 
ters in proportion to their falling out of one into 
another. All these sources move both downwards 
and upwards, like a vessel hung above the earth ; 
which vessel is naturally one, and indeed the 
greatest of these abysses. It goes across the 
whole earth, and is open on two sides. Homer 
speaks of it, when he says, 

ct I will hurl him deep into the gulfs 
Of gloomy Tartarus, where Hell shuts fast 
Her iron gates, and spreads her brazen floor 
As far below the shades, as earth from heaven, 

Homer is not the only author that called this 
place by the name of Tartarus 5 most of the other 
poets did the same. All the rivers rendezvous in 
this abyss, and run out from thence again. Each 
of these rivers is tinctured with the nature of the 
earth through which it runs. And the reason of 
their not stagnating in these abysses, is this, that 
they find no ground, but roll and throw their wa« 

15* 



166 THE PH.EDON 

■ters upside down. The air and wind that girds 
them about, does the same, for it follows them 
both when they rise above the earth, and when 
they descend towards us* And just as in the re- 
spiration of animals there is an incessant ingress 
and egress of air 5 so the air that is mingled with 
the waters accompanies them in their ingress and 
egress, and raises raging winds. 

When these waters fall into this lower abyss, 
they diffuse themselves into all the channels of 
the springs and rivers, and fill them up ; just as 
if one were drawing water with two pails, one of 
which fills as the other empties. For these wa- 
ters flowing from thence, fill up all our channels, 
from whence diffusing themselves all about, they 
fill our seas, rivers, lakes, and fountains. After 
that they disappear, and diving into the earth, 
some with a large compass, and others by small 
turnings, repair to Tartarus, where they enter by 
other passages than those they came out by, and 
withal much lower. Some re-enter on the same 
. side to that of their egress ; and some again enter 
on all sides, after they have made one or several 
turns round the earth ; like serpents folding 
their bodies into several rolls ; and having gained 
entrance, rise up in the middle of the abyss, but 



OF PLATO. 167 

cannot reach farther, by reason that the other 
half is higher than their level. They form several 
very great and large currents, but there are four 
principal ones, the greatest of which is the outer- 
most of all, and is called the ocean. 

Opposite to that is Acheron, which runs through 
the desert places, and diving through the earth, 
falls into the marsh, which from it is called the 
Acherusian lake, whither all souls repair upon 
their departure from the body ; and having stayed 
there all the time appointed, some a longer, some 
a shorter time, are sent back to this world to ani- 
mate beasts. 

Between Acheron and the ocean, there runs a 
third river, which retires — again not far from its 
source, and falls into a vast space full of fire. 
There it forms a lake greater than our sea, in 
which the water mixed with mud boils, and set- 
ting out from thence all black and muddy, runs 
along the earth to the end of the Acherusian lake, 
without mixing with its waters : and after having 
made several turnings under the earth, throws 
itself underneath Tartarus. And this is the flam- 
ing river called Phlegeton, the streams whereof 
are seen to fly up upon the earth in several places. 

Opposite to this is the fourth river, which falls 



168 THE PH^EDON 

first into a horrible wild place, of a bluish colour, 
called by the name of Stygian, where it forms the 
formidable lake of Styx. And after it has tinc- 
tured itself with horrible qualities from the waters 
of that lake, dives into the earth, where it makes 
several turns, and directing its course over against 
Phlegeton, at last meets it in the lake of Ache- 
ron, where it does not mingle its waters with those 
of the other rivers 5 but after it has run its round 
on the earth, throws itself into the Tartarus by a 
passage opposite to that of Phlegeton. This 
fourth river is called by the poets Cocytus. 
Nature having thus disposed of all these things, 
when the dead arrive at the place whither their 
demon leads them, they are all tried and judged, 
both those who have lived a holy and just life, and 
those who have wallowed in injustice and im- 
piety. 

Those who are found to have lived neither en- 
tirely a criminal, nor absolutely an innocent life, 
are sent to the Acheron. There they embark in 
boats, and are transported to the Acherusian lake, 
where they dwell and suffer punishment propor- 
tionable to their crimes, till at last being purified 
and cleansed from their sins, and set at liberty, 
they receive the recompense of their good ac- 
tions. 



OF PLATO, 169 

Those whose sins are incurable, and have been 
guilty of sacrilege and murder, or such other 
crimes, are by a just and fatal destiny thrown 
headlong into Tartarus, where they are kept pri- 
soners for ever. 

But those who are found guilty of curable 
sins, though very great ones, such as offering vio- 
lence to their father or mother in a passion, or 
killing a man, and repenting for it all their life 
time, must of necessity be likewise cast into 
Tartarus : but after a year there, the tide throws 
the homicides back into Cocytus, and the parri- 
cides into Phlegeton, which draws them into the 
Acherusian lake. There they cry out bitterly, 
and invoke those whom they have deprived of 
life to aid them, and conjure them for forgiveness, 
and to suffer them to pass the lake and give them 
admittance. If they are prevailed with, they 
pass the lake, and are delivered from their mis- 
ery ; if not, they are cast again into Tartarus, 
which throws them back into these rivers ; and 
this continues to be repeated till they have satis- 
fied the injured persons. For such is the sen- 
tence pronounced against them. 

But those who have distinguished themselves 
by a holy life, are released from these earthly 



170 THE PH^DON 

places, these horrible prisons ; and are received 
above into that pure earth, where they dwell ; 
and those of them who are sufficiently purged by 
philosophy, live forever without their body ; and 
are received into yet more admirable and deli- 
cious mansions, which I cannot sufficiently de- 
scribe, neither does the narrow limits of my time 
allow me to launch into that subject. 

What I told but now is sufficient, my dear 
Simmias, to show that we ought to labour all our 
life time to purchase virtue and wisdom, since we 
have so great a hope, and so great a reward pro- 
posed to us. 

No man of sense can pretend to assure you, 
that all these things are just as you have heard : 
but all thinking men will be positive that the 
state of the soul, and the place of its abode after 
death, is absolutely such as I represent it to be, 
or at least very near it, provided the soul be im- 
mortal ; and will certainly find it worth his while 
to run the risk : for what danger is more invit- 
ing? One must needs be charmed with that 
blessed hope. (37) And for this reason I have di- 
lated a little upon this subject. 

Every one that during his life time renounces 
the pleasures of the body, that looked upon the 



OF PLATO. 171 

appurtenances of the body as foreign ornaments, 
and siding with the contrary party, pursued only 
the pleasures of true knowledge, and beautified 
the soul, not with foreign ornaments, but with 
decorations suitable to its nature, such as temper- 
ance, justice, fortitude, liberty, and truth, such a 
one, being firmly confident of the happiness of 
his soul, ought to wait peaceably for the hour of 
his removal, as being always ready for the voy- 
age, whenever his fate calls him. 

As for you my dear Simmias and Cebes, and 
all you of this company, you shall all follow me 
when your hour comes. Mine is now, and as a 
tragical poet would say, the surly pilot calls me 
aboard; wherefore it is time I should go to the 
bath : for I think it is better to drink the poison 
after I am washed, in order to save the women 
the trouble of washing me after I am dead. 

Socrates having thus spoken, Crito addressed 
himself to Socrates, thus: Alas then ! in God's 
name be it. But what orders do you give me 
and the rest here present, with reference to your 
children, or your affairs, that by putting them in 
execution, we may at least have the comfort of 
obliging you ? 

What I now recommend to you, Crito, re- 



172 THE PHiEDON 

plies Socrates, is what I always recommended, 
viz. To take care of yourselves. You cannot do 
yourselves a more considerable piece of service, 
nor oblige me and my family more (38) than to 
promise me at this time so to do, whereas if you 
neglect yourselves, and refuse to form your lives 
according to the model 1 always proposed to you, 
and follow it as it were by the footsteps, all your 
protestations and offers of service will be altoge- 
ther useless to me. 

We shall do our utmost, Socrates, replies Crito, 
to obey you. But how will you be buried ? 

Just as you please, says Socrates ; if you can 
but catch me, and if I do not give you the slip. 
At the same time, looking upon us with a gentle 
smile, I cannot, says he, compass my end, in per- 
suading Crito that this is Socrates who discourses 
with you, and methodizes all the parts of this dis- 
course ; and still he fancies that Socrates is the 
thing that shall see death by and by. He con- 
founds me with my corps ; and in that view asks 
how I must be buried ? and all this long discourse 
that I made to you but now, in order to make it 
out, that as soon as I shall have taken down the 
poison, I shall stay no longer with you, but shall 
depart from hence, and go to enjoy the felicity 



OF PLATO. 173 

of the blessed ; in a word, all that I have said for 
your consolation and mine, is to no purpose, but 
it is all lost, with reference to him. I beg of you, 
that you will be security for me to Crito, but after 
a contrary manner to that in which he offered to 
bail me to my judges; for he engaged that I 
would not be gone. Pray engage for me, that I 
shall no sooner be dead, but I shall be gone; to 
the end that poor Crito may bear my death more 
steadily; and when he sees my body burnt or 
interred may not despair, as if I suffered great 
misery, and say at my funeral, that Socrates is 
laid out, Socrates is carried out, Socrates is inter- 
red. For you must know, my dear Crito, says he, 
turning to him, that speaking amiss of death is 
not only a fault in the waj~ of speaking, but like- 
wise wounds the soul. You should have more 
courage and hope, and say, that my body is to be 
interred. That you may inter as you please, and 
in the manner that is most conformable to our 
laws and customs. 

Having spoken thus, he rose and went into the 
next room to bathe ; Crito followed him, and he 
desired we should attend him. Accordingly we 
all attended him, and entertained ourselves a while 
with a repetition and farther examination of what 
16 



174 THE PH^EDON 

he had said, another while in speaking of the 
miserable state that was before us. For we all 
looked upon ourselves as persons deprived of our 
good father, that were about to pass the rest of our 
lives in an orphan state. 

After he came out of the bath, they brought his 
children to him; for he had three, two little ones, 
and one that was much older: and the women of 
his family came all in to him. He spoke to them 
some time in the presence of Crito, gave them his 
advice, and requested them to retire, carry his 
children along with them, and then come back to 
us. It was then towards sun setting, for he had 
been a long while in the little room. 

When he came in, he sat down upon his bed, 
without saying much: for much about the same 
time the officer of the eleven magistrates came in, 
and drawing near to him, Socrates, says he, I have 
ao occasion to make the same complaint of you, 
that 1 have every day of those in the same con- 
dition; for as sooii as I come to acquaint them, 
by orders from the efeven magistrates that they 
must drink the poison, they are incensed against 
me and curse me; but as for you, ever since you 
came into this place I have found you to be the 
most even tempered, the calmest, and the best 



OF PLATO. i7r 

man that ever entered this prison ; and i am con- 
fident that at present you are not. angry with me; 
doubtless you are angry with none, but those who 
are the cause of your misfortunes. You know 
them without naming. On this occasion, Socra- 
tes, you know what I come to tell you ; farewell, 
endeavour to bear this necessity with a constant 
mind. Having spoke thus, he began to cry, and 
turning his back upon us, retired a little. Fare- 
well, my friend, says Socrates, looking upon hirn, 
I will follow the counsel you have given me. 
Mind, says he, what honesty is in this fellow ! 
During my imprisonment he came often to see me, 
and discourse with me : he is more worth than all 
the rest'; how heartily he crys for me ! Let us 
obey him with a handsome mien, my dear Crito, 
if the poison be brewed, let him bring it; if not, 
let him brew it himself. 

Rut, methinks, Socrates, says Crito, the sun 
shines upon the mountains, and is not yet set ; and 
I know several in your circumstances did not 
drink the poison till a long time after the order 
was given ; that they supped very well (39) and 
enjoyed any thing they had a mind to : wherefore 
I conjure you not to press so hard ; you have yet 
time enough. 



176 THE PHiEDON 

Those who do as you say, Crito, says Socrates, 
have their own reasons ; they think it as just as 
much time gained : and I have likewise my rea- 
sons for not doing so ; for the only advanta ge I 
can have by drinking it later, is to make myself 
ridiculous to myself, in being so foolishly fond of 
life, as to pretend to husband it in the last minute 
when there is no more to come. Go then my 
dear Crito and do as I bid you do, and not vex 
me any longer. 

Whereupon Crito gave the sign to the slave 
that waited just by. The slave went out, and 
after he had spent some time in brewing the poi- 
son, returned accompanied by him that was to give 
it, and brought it all together in one cup. Socra- 
tes seeing him come in ; that is very well, my 
friend, says he; but what must I do? for you 
know best, and it is your business to direct me. 

You have nothing else to do, says he, but 
whenever you have drunk it, to walk until you 
find your legs stiff, and then to lie down upon 
your bed. This is all you have to do. And at 
the same time gave him the cup. Socrates took 
it, not only without any commotion or change of 
colour or countenance, but with joy ; and looking 
upon the fellow with a steady and benign eye, as 



NOTES. 



(1) The patriotic and virtuous Cato, when he found that 
an ambitious tyrant had entirely subverted the liberties of his 
beloved country ; and that there was not the least hopes of 
restoring her again to that republican splendour from which 
she had fallen ; and vexed with the degeneracy of his country- 
men. After having twice read Plato's treatise, on the immor - 
tality of the soul, found the prospects of a future existence 
so glorious and so satisfactorily proven by the Grecian sage ; 
that, with a sword he put a period to his existence. 

(2) Echecrates was a native of Phlius, a city of Peloponesus, 
in the territory of Sicyon ; he was a great admirer and strict 
follower of Socrates. 

(3) Socrates, the most celebrated Philosopher of all an- 
tiquity, was a native of Athens. His father Sophroniscus 
was a statuary, and his mother Phaenarete was by profession, 
a midwife. For some time he followed the occupation of his 
father, and some have mentioned the statues of the graces, 
admired for their simplicity and elegance, as the work of his 
own hands. He was called away from this meaner employ- 
ment, of which, however, he never blushed, by Crito, who 
admired his genius and courted his friendship. Philosophy 
soon became the study of Socrates, and under Archeleus and 
x\naxagoras he laid the foundation of that exemplary virtue 
which succeeding ages have ever loved and venerated. He 
appeared like the rest of his countrymen in the field of 
battle ; he fought with boldness and intrepidity, and to his 



182 NOTES TO THE 

courage two of his friends and disciples Xenophon and Al- 
cibiades, owned the preservation of their lives. But the cha- 
racter of Socrates appears more conspicuous and dignified as 
a philosopher and moralist, than as a warrior. He was fond 
of labour, he inured himself to suffer hardships, and he 
acquired that serenity of mind, and firmness of countenance, 
which the most alarming dangers could never destroy, or the 
most sudden calamities alter. If he was poor, it was from 
choice, and not the effects of vanity, or the wish of appear- 
ing singular. He bore injuries with patience, and the insult 
of malice or resentment he not only treated with con$$mpt, 
but even received with a mind that expressed some concern ,. 
and felt compassion for the depravity of human nature. So 
singular and so venerable a character was admired by the 
most enlightened of the Athenians. Socrates was attended 
by a number of illustrious pupils, whom he instructed by his 
exemplary life, as well as by his doctrines. He had no par- 
ticular place where to deliver his lectures, but as the good of 
his countrymen, and the reformation of their corrupted morals, 
and not the aggregation of riches, was the object of his study. 
He was present every where, and drew the attention of his 
auditors either in the groves of Academus, the Lyceum, or on 
the banks of the Ifyssus. He spoke with freedom on every 
subject, religious as well as civil ; and had the courage to 
condemn the violence of his countrymen, and to withstand 
the torrent of resentment, by which the Athenian generals 
were capitally punished for not burying the dead at the battle 
of Arginusae. This independence of spirit, and that visible 
superiority of mind and genius over the rest of his country- 
men, created many enemies to Socrates ; but as his character 
was irreproachable, and his doctrines pure, and void of all 
obscurity, the voice of malevolence was silent. 

Yet Aristophanes soon undertook at the instigation of 



PfLEDON OF PLATO. Igg 

Melitus, in his comedy of the Clouds, to ridicule the venerble 
character of Socrates on the stage ; and when once the way 
was open to calumny and defamation, the fickle and licen- 
tious populace paid no reverence to the philosopher whom 
they had before regarded as a being of a superior order. 
When this had succeeded, Melitus stood forth to criminate 
him, together with Anytus and Lycon, and the philosopher 
was summoned before the tribunal of the five hundred. He 
was accused of corrupting the Athenian youth, of making 
innovations in the religion of the Greeks, and of ridiculing 
the many gods whom the Athenians worshipped ; yet false 
as this might appear, the accusers relied for the success of 
their cause upon the perjury of false witnesses, and the envy 
of the judges, whose ignorance would readily yield to mis- 
representations, and be influenced and guided by eloquence 
and artifice. In this their expectations were not frustrated, 
and while the judges expected submission from Socrates, and 
that meanness of behaviour and servility of defence which 
distinguished criminals, the philosopher, perhaps, accelerated 
his own fall by the firmness of his mind, and his uncomply- 
ing integrity. Lysias, one of the most celebrated orators of 
the age, composed an oration in a laboured and pathetic style, 
which he offered to his friend to be pronounced as his defence 
in the presence of his judges. 

Socrates read it, but after he had praised the eloquence 
and the animation of the whole, he rejected it as neither 
manly nor expressive of fortitude, and comparing it to Sicyo- 
nian shoes, which though fitting, were proofs of efrimanacy, 
he observed, that a philosopher ought to be conspicuous for 
magnanimity, and for firmness of soul. In his apology, he 
spoke with great animation, and confessed that while others 
boasted that they were acquainted with every thing, he him- 



184 NOTES TO THE 

self knew nothing. The whole discourse was full of sim>. 
plicity and noble grandeur, the energetic language of offended 
innocence. He modestly said, that what he possessed was 
applied for the service of the Athenians ; it was his wish to 
make his fellow citizens happy, and it was a duty which he 
performed by the special command of the gods, whose autho- 
rity, said he, emphatically, to his judges, I regard more than 
yours. 

Such language from a man who was accused of a capital 
crime, astonished and irritated the judges. Socrates was 
condemned, but only by a majority of three voices ; and 
when he was commanded, according to the spirit of the Athe- 
nian laws, to pass sentence on himself, and to mention the 
death he preferred, the philosopher said, For my attempts to 
teach the Athenian youth justice and moderation, and render 
the rest of my countrymen more happy, let me be maintained 
at the public expense the remaining years of my life in the Pry- 
taneum ; an honour, O Athenians, which I deserve more than 
the victors at the Olympic games. They make their country- 
men more happy in appearance, but I have made you so in 
reality. This exasperated the judges in the highest degree, 
and he was condemned to drink hemlock. Upon this he ad- 
dressed the court, and more particularly the judges who had 
decided in his favour in a pathetic speech. He told them that 
to die was a pleasure, since he was going to hold converse 
with the greatest heroes of antiquity ; he recommended to 
their paternal care his defenceless children ; and as he re- 
turned to the prison, he exclaimed ; I go to die, you to live : 
but which is the best the divinity alone can know. The solemn 
celebration of the Delian festivals prevented his execution 
for thirty days, and during that time he was confined in the 
prison, and loaded with irons. His friends, and particularly 



PfLEDON OF PLATO. 185 

his disciples, were his constant attendants ; he discoursed 
with them upon different subjects with all his usual cheer- 
fulness and serenity. He reproved them for their sorrow, and 
when one of them was uncommonly grieved, because he was 
to suffer though innocent, the philosopher replied — Would 
you then have me die guilty ? With this composure he spent 
his last days ; he continued to be a preceptor till the moment 
of his death, and instructed his pupils on questions of the great- 
est importance. He told them his opinions in support of the 
immortality of the soul, and reprobated with acrimony the 
prevalent custom of suicide ; he disregarded the interces- 
sions of his friends, and when it was in his power to make 
his escape out of prison, he refused it, and asked with his 
usual pleasantry, where he could escape death ; where, says 
he to Crito, who had bribed the gaoler and made his escape 
certain, Where shall I fly to avoid this irrevocable doom passed 
on all mankind ? When the hour to drink the poison was 
come, the executioner presented him the cup with tears in 
his eyes. Socrates received it with composure, and after he 
had made a libation to the gods, he drank it with an unaltered 
countenance, and a few moments afterwards he expired. 
Such was the end of a man whom the uninfluenced answer 
of the oracle of Delphi, had pronounced the wisest of 
mankind. Socrates died 400 years before Christ, in the 
seventieth year of his age. He was no sooner buried than 
the Athenians repented of their cruelty ; his accusers were 
universally despised and shunned ; one suffered death, some 
were banished, and others, with their own hands, put an 
end to their life, which their severity to the best of the 
Athenians had rendered insupportable. The actions, sayings, 
and opinions of Socrates have been faithfully recorded by two 
of his pupils, Xenophon and Plato ; and every thing which 
17 



186 NOTES TO THE 

relates to the life and circumstances of this great philosopher 
is now minutely known. To his poverty, his innocence, and 
his example, the Greeks were particularly indebted for their 
greatness and splendour j and the learning which was univer- 
sally disseminated by his pupils, gave the whole nation a con- 
sciousness of their superiority over the rest of the world, not 
only in the polite arts, but in the more laborious exercises, 
which their writings celebrated. The philosophy of Socrates 
forms an interesting epoch in the history of the human mind. 
The son of Sophroniscus derided the more abstruse inquiries 
and metaphysical researches of his predecessors, and by first 
introducing moral philosophy, he induced mankind to consi- 
der themselves, their passions, their opinions, their duties, 
actions, and faculties. From this it was said that the foun- 
dation of the Socratic school drew philosophy down from 
heaven upon the earth. In his attendance upon religious 
worship Socrates was himself an example ; he believed the 
divine origin of dreams and omens, and publicly declared that 
he was accompanied by a demon or invisible conductor, whose 
frequent interposition stopped him from the commission of 
evil and the guilt of misconduct. This familiar spirit, how- 
ever, according to some, was nothing more than a sound 
judgment assisted by prudence and long experience, which 
warned him at the approach of danger, and from a general 
speculation of mankind could foresee what success would 
attend an enterprise, or what calamities would follow an ill- 
managed administration. As a supporter of the immortality 
of the soul, he allowed the perfection of a supreme being, 
from which he deduced the government of the universe. 
From the resources of experience, as well as nature and obser- 
vation, he perceived the indiscriminate dispensation of good 
and evil to mankind by the hand of heaven ; and he was con- 



PILEDON OF PLATO. 187 

vinced that none but the most inconsiderate would incur the 
displeasure of their Creator to avoid poverty or sickness, or 
to gratify a sensual appetite, which at the end harass their 
soul with remorse and the consciousness of guilt. From this 
natural view of things, he perceived the relation of one nation 
with another, and how much the tranquillity of civil society 
depended upon the proper discharge of these respective duties. 
The actions of men furnished materials also for his discourse ; 
to instruct them was his aim, and to render them happy was 
the ultimate object of his daily lessons. From principles like 
these, which were enforced by the unparalleled example of an 
affectionate husband, a tender parent, a warlike soldier, and 
a patriotic citizen in Socrates, soon after the celebrated sects 
of the Platonists, the Peripatetics, the Academics, Cyrenaics, 
Stoics, &c. arose. Socrates never wrote for the public eye, 
yet many support that the tragedies of his pupil, Euripides, 
were partly composed by him. He was naturally of a licen- 
tious disposition, and a physiognomist observed, in looking 
in the face of the philosopher, that his heart was the most 
depraved, immodest, and corrupted that ever was in the 
human breast. This nearly cost the satirist his life ; but So- 
crates upbraided his disciples, who wished to punish the 
physiognomist, and declared that his assertions were true, 
but that all his vicious propensities had been duly corrected 
and curbed by means of reason. Socrates made a poetical 
version of Jisop's Fables while in prison. 

(4) Phaedon, an Athenian, was under great obligations to 
Socrates ; for, being taken prisoner in war, and sold to a 
merchant that bought slaves, Socrates, w T ho greatly admired 
his genius, induced Aicibiades or Crito to ransom him. After 
which he received him into the number of his friends and 



188 NOTES TO THE 

disciples. He likewise had the honour of having this dia- 
logue on the Immortality of the Soul, inscribed with his 
name. 

(5) Phlias, like many other cities in ancient Greece, was 
too obscure for the Athenians to have any intercourse with 
it, except by their merchants, who casually traded there for 
a particular kind of wine, which the inhabitants of that dis- 
trict were famed for making. 

(6) Apollodorus, a disciple of Socrates, a man of weak in- 
tellect, but remarkable for his attachment to his preceptor* 
when Socrates was condemned and going to prison, he cried 
out, " that which afflicts me most, Socrates, is to see you die 
innocent." Socrates smiled, and said, " My friend, would 
you rather see me die guilty ?" 

(7) Critobulus, Crito, Hermogenes, Epigenes, AeschinCs ? 
Ctesippus, and Menexemus : nothing more is known of these 
than that they were disciples of Socrates, and, after his death 9 
having fled from Athens, they spread his doctrines over vari- 
ous parts of the world. Crito wrote several dialogues, but 
they are now lost. 

Antisthenes, an Athenian, the founder of the sect of the 
Cynics, and had among his pupils the famous Diogenes ; but 
when he had heard Socrates, he shut up his school, and told 
his pupils, " go seek for yourselves a master, 1 have now 
found one." He went every day forty stadia to hear the 
lessons of Socrates. Being asked by one of his pupils, what 
philosophy had taught him ? he answered, to live with my- 
self. 



PILEDON OF PLATO. 189 

(8) Euclides, a native of Megara, and disciple of Socrates. 
When the Athenians had forbidden all the people of Megara 
on pain of death to enter their city, Euclides disguised him- 
self in female apparel that he might escape their notice and 
gain an introduction into the presence of Socrates. 

(9) Aristippus, a native of Cyrene, and disciple of So- 
crates. He was a great epicure, and founded a sect of phi- 
losophers at Cyrene. He was one of the flatterers of Diony- 
sius of Sicily. He generally received the surname of Senior, 
to distinguish him from his grandson, who was a philosopher 
of the same name. 

(10) The delicacy and keenness of this satire is thus ex- 
plained by Demetrius Phalereus. Plato, says he, had a mind 
to suppress the scandal that Aristippus and Cleombrotus drew 
upon themselves by feasting at Mg in a, when Socrates, their 
friend and preceptor, was in prison, without deigning to go 
to see him, or even to assist on the day of his death, though 
they were then at the entry of the Athenian harbour. Had 
he told the whole story, the invective had been too particular ; 
but with an admirable decency and artfulness, he introduces 
Phaedon giving a list of those who assisted at his death, and 
making answer to the question, — whether they were there or 
not ? That they were at iEgina ; pointing at once to their 
debauchery and ingratitude. This stroke is the more biting, 
that the thing points out the horror of the action. Plato 
might securely have attacked Aristippus and Cleombrotus ; 
but he chose rather to. make use of this figure, which in 
effect gives the greater blow. This is a notable piece of 
delicate satire. Athenasus, by charging Plato with slander 
upon this score, prejudiced himself more than Plato, 

17* 



190 NOTES TO THE 

who will always be held up for having this zeal for his 
master. 



(11) The magistrates were the overseers of the prison and 
prisoners, and executed the sentences of the judges. 

(12) Evenus, an elegiac poet of Paros, the first that said 
habit was a second nature. 

(13) Simmias, a philosopher of Thebes, and a scholar of 
Socrates ; he wrote some dialogues which are now lost. 

(14) Cebes, a Theban philosopher, one of the disciples of 
Socrates ; he attended his learned preceptor in his last mo- 
ments, and distinguished himself by three dialogues that he 
wrote, but more particularly by his tables, which contain a 
beautiful and affecting picture of human life, delineated with 
accuracy of judgment and great splendour of sentiment. 

(15) Philolaus was a Pythagorean philosopher, who could 
not fail to assert his master's doctrine of the unlawfulness of 
self-murder. He wrote only one volume, which Plato pur- 
chased at four hundred crowns. 

(16) It would appear from this passage, that the exalted 
mind of Plato was still fettered by strong prejudices, the 
same as some of our philanthropists and philosophers are at 
this day, viz. that a portion of the human race are doomed 
by nature to remain slaves to their fellow-mortals. 

(17) Probably the executioner meant by this advice to keep 
on good terms with Socrates, and save his money ; for he 



PILEDON OF PLATO. 191 

was to furnish the hemlock, of which a pound (the common 
dose) cost 12 drachmas, i. e. 3 livres and 12cL 

When Phocion came to drink the poison, the quantity of 
hemlock proved not sufficient ; and the executioner refused 
to prepare more except he had twelve drachmas paid him, 
which was the price of a full draught. As this occasioned 
a troublesome delay, Phocion called out to his friends, and 
said, " Since one cannot die on free cost at Athens, give the 
man his money." This execution was on the 19th day 
of April, when there was a procession of horsemen in ho- 
nour of Jupiter. As the cavalcade passed by, some took off 
their chaplets from their heads, others shed tears as they 
looked at the prison doors; all who had not hearts entirely 
savage, or were not corrupted by rage and envy, looked upon 
it as a most impious thing, not to have reprieved him at least 
for that day, and so to have kept the city unpolluted on the 
festival. , 

The proceedings against Phocion put the Greeks in mind 
of those against Socrates. The treatment of both was equally 
unjust, and the calamities thence entailed upon Athens were 
perfectly similar. — See Plutarch in Phocion, 

(18) Suicide from love. — We are perpetually reminded by 
some sad catastrophe that the simple ordinance of nature, 
devised from human felicity, are lieble to frustration and 
disappointment from human conduct, or circumstances un- 
forseen by mortal sagacity. Adolescence unfolds the most 
delightful of all passions which can warm the breast, which 
each created being is destined by the grand arrangements of 
the universe to feel ; for its subsistence is the prop of the 
world. The other passions are awakened at times and at 
seasons which may occur, but which may not occur because 



192 NOTES TO THE 

no immediate and ulterior purposes seem dependent on their 
subsistence or their energies. They may remain eternally 
dormant amidst the advances of earthly concerns, and with- 
out interruption of their order. It is otherwise here ; mutual 
affection must be necessarily involved, inspiring pleasure 
while renovating in endless series the depredation of time, 
and preserving the busy theatre of life from solitude. Yet is 
this the chief passion refined in the great laboratory of nature 
to be incorporated with our frame, 'productive of the most 
afflicting class of suicides ! Oh love, how delicious are thy 
pure enjoyments to mortals ! But were it shown how many 
victims thou hast sacrificed, all the blood thou hast spilt — 
the philanthropist would hate thee, or bury himself in a 
desert to be withdrawn from thy seductions. 

Already have the fatal results of rage, of jealousy, disap- 
pointment, or inverted affections, been described. It is not 
inconsistent that they should be numerous : nor can they 
cease or be extirpated, so long as human frailty is liable to be 
thus overborn. But although they should appear most fre- 
quent from that passion which predominates over the rest, 
certain causes sometimes operate against them ; while on the 
other hand they lead to deplorable catastrophes. 

It is more unusual, indeed, that the stronger sex give way 
to despair, and yield up existence when their hope of pos- 
sessing the object of desire is frustrated ; but as they can 
freely shed their blood in testimony of the vehemence of 
affection, so can they resign life by becoming their own des- 
troyers. It is true, that the important concerns which for 
common are specially allotted to their share may save them 
from solitary brooding over disappointment ; but sudden re- 
solves may be precipitately executed. Yet the larger cata- 
logue of suicides among the fairer part of creation is a 



PRJ3D0N OF PLATO. 193 

lamentable record of the perverted issue of a passion origi- 
nally designed for pleasure ; and that which follows the per- 
juries of men alone is the more cruel, because the bloom of 
youth and the age of inexperience so often conspire in 
paving the way to destruction. Even without the contrivance 
of stratagem, melancholy instances are afforded by some, 
too confident in their own strength, how feeble are all reso- 
lutions to steel the breast against those soft emotions destined 
to sway untutored mankind. Danger ever hovers in the train 
of passions : those who deal with them dwell in turbulence, 
and only self-control can forbid them the victory. 

It is they which ensnare : it is they which, banishing the 
the hold of reserve, loosen the zone of virgin safety; which 
belie the rising frown in smiles ; which never find the fond 
delusion so grateful as when returned as it is inspired. Some 
there are who vow and mean to give an honest pledge ; who 
scorn deceit, and hasten to fulfil the assurance which indis- 
creet affection has prematurely rewarded. But that which 
passion promises, ascendant reason, nay, abating inclination, 
often refuses to sanction in performance. Wretched is she 
who finds, that in an unguarded moment treachery has lulled 
her to her ruin. Innocence is unsuspicious of guile : those 
of the worthiest nature think least of vice, they harbour 
nothing unseen, andso do the best and fairest fall. Where now 
axe all those impassioned endearmeuts, never fading while 
they were soliciting ? No excellence was sufficiently worthy, 
no ornament was too bright to adorn an image already trans- 
cendant. Where the fervid protestations plighting everlast- 
ing faith, speaking protection, inviting to confidence? 
Where those delightful hours foretold of indissoluble union, 
always renovating, for always flowing from the pure source 



194 NOTES TO THE 

of disinterested affection ? Have they sunk under the load 
of treachery, or evaporated from cloying possession ? 

The change is frightful, perfidy has distilled its venomous 
dregs to wound the peace and stain the purity of its victim. 
While yet held in suspense, she strives to reclaim the de- 
stroyers—his cold disdain or stern repulse signify, in less 
equivocal language than from the lips, that the charms of 
beauty have waned in satiated passion. Conscious dishonour, 
and the bitter sneer of calumny, bid her fly the social throng : 
the shafts of disappointment; having fixed their barbs in her 
breast, plunge her in despair and desolation. O miserable 
fate ! for the dawning of her days was glorious : robed by 
the graces, she rose refulgent in innocence ; fascination hung 
on the melody of her voice. As the vernal flower is nurtured 
by the pearly dew, she flourished while her virtues unfolded 
under the kindly culture of paternal love. But the sun of 
her earthly joys has set ; this sublunary sphere has been a 
scene of trial and sorrow ; the night is gathering fast around 
her. But a brighter world opens a celestial asylum. Yet 
only a little suffering, transient, short and easily born, — and 
her soul is free. 

" Let not the youth inconsiderately tamper with the virtue 
of his mistress, and thus prove her assassin by his infidelity. 
Terrible examples warn the credulous and inexperienced 
maid of her danger, and teach her to preserve an incessant 
guard over herself." 

Were it not for certain counteracting principles summoned 
into operation, this distressing class of suicides perhaps would 
be immoderately extended. The resentment which naturally 
follows discovered treachery, inspires its victim with hatred^ 
or excites a thirst to be revenged on the betrayer, which 



PKLEDON OF PLATO. 195 

could least be hoped from contemplations of suicide. Affec- 
tion, also, naturally originating for her offspring, conquers 
the desire of death, and early solicitudes regarding its wel- 
fare, tell the mother, who has endured so cruel an injury, to 
spare herself. After the first dire paroxysm of grief, time, 
that best unction of human smart, offers its balsam to alle- 
viate the wound and restore composure. Nevertheless, many, 
too soft and gentle for indignation, too tender to bear the 
rude ruffling of adversity and the sharp edge of detraction, 
voluntarily perish from the dread of shame. 

But it is difficult to trace the source of the catastrophe to 
a passion whose subsistence sensibility prompts mankind to 
disguise, much rather than to disclose to the inquisitive* 
That magnanimity which actuates the one sex, and that 
timid reserve animating the other, unite in urging both to 
concealment. It is so unlikely an issue to attend affection 
where known, because of all inducements that should be the 
strongest to survivance, another construction is put upon 
the deed: likewise, the definition of suicide from Love has 
so little correctness, that impatience, rage or jealousy, or 
chiefly grief, is more just and expressive. So the gamester 
commits suicide for his losses ; not because he gained, but 
from regret at his misfortune, or from shame that he cannot 
keep his engagements. 

No hazard is so deep as to involve the affections, no vio- 
lence so great as when . offered to excited sensibilities. 
Hence it is probable this kind of suicide never has been rare. 

Suicide for the loss of kindred. — The anguish we endure 
on loosing our friends and relatives, testifies how unwilling- 
we are to part with them ; that we are never content with the 
longest enjoyment of their society ; that we never can con- 
sent to their being torn from our embraces. But, consider- 



196 NOTES TO THE 

ing the transience of earthly gifts, that all which we think 
our own is only lent to us and may be recalled without any 
warning, perhaps it is wrong to incorporate our affections so 
deeply with what is most perishable. Yet our sorrow is be- 
yond the bounds of consolation. We beat our breasts and 
tear our hair ; we murmur at the decrees of Providence and 
disturb the world with our lamentations. Sometimes affec- 
tionate parents have voluntarily resigned themselves to death, 
or united in the fate bereaving them of their children. Some- 
times others, bound by the ties of consanguinity, have refused 
to remain behind. But chief of all has the privation of hus- 
bands and protectors, those guardians of tenderness, enlarged 
the too ample list of suicides. Beginning in the earliest ages 
of time, self-destruction subsisted thousands of years ago the 
same as it does at the present day in the east. The same 
piles were kindled, the same ceremonies observed in the 
sacrifice, and the same heroic devotion displayed by those 
from whom fortitude was to be the least expected. It spread 
in the west, extending to the north, and has been seen in the 
southern hemisphere. As if an inheritance in families, it 
has passed from mothers to daughters in lineal succession, so 
to speak, throughout repeated generations ; nor can we say 
when it commenced among them, or how it closed. The 
historian of an ancient race of Messenians, thus continues : 
11 if matters be so, three in successive descent from Marpeza 
slew themselves for the loss of their husbands." 

Among the ancient Heruli, a tribe wont to appease their 
their deities by human sacrifice, the wife of any one deceas- 
ed voluntarily strangled herself soon after at her husband's 
tomb, to prove her affection and procure the reward of post- 
humous fame. Her survivance induced everlasting shame, 
and was the reproach of his relations. On the banks of the 



PfLEDON OF PLATO. 197 

Vistula, there formerly dwelt the Winedi, described as " a 
wicked and odious race," but so affectionate in the coujugal 
state, that wives would not remain behind their departed 
spouses ; and she who suffered death by her own hand, in 
order that her body might be consumed on the same pile as 
that of her husband, was renowned among the survivors. 

The queens of Sweden accompanied their husbands to the 
shades, and their cremation at Upsal has been already com- 
memorated, along with solitary examples in other countries. 
But all did not feel the duty alike imperious ; for Saxo inveighs 
against a princess brought from Scotland, who dreaded to die 
with her husband Amleth. On a certain occasion, Eric, king 
of Sweden, had made a vow that he would not survive more 
than ten years, provided he could obtain the victory over his 
enemies ; but as it was an established custom at that time to 
bury the wife along with the husband, his queen refused to 
reside with him until the period when his vow should be ful- 
filled. 

But in the East, where human reason seems to be most dis- 
turbed by superstition, and the mental faculties ready to be 
wound up to the most violent excess of passion, it is an irre- 
versible obligation on the surviving widow to follow her de- 
parted husband to the valley of death if she will not remain 
and be dishonoured. It is rarely that she needs persuasion, 
or to^be reminded of her duty ; though some, standing appal- 
led by the terrors of approaching torment, or languishing still 
for the sweets of life, doubtless become a compulsory sacri- 
fice. 

Their common alacrity to mount the pile and sever them- 
selves from the world, tell how willing they are to perish by 
the same flames which they themselves shall kindle. 

No sooner has the husband breathed his last, than his 
18 



198 NOTES TO THE 

widow, immediately, and without the slightest hesitation, an- 
nounces her determination to join his soul in paradise. While 
the spot is selected and the pile preparing, she is adorning 
herself as if for a festal day ; and comes forth decked in all 
her jewels and ornaments. A few religious ceremonies en- 
sue ; she walks around the structure deliberately, with a col- 
lected countenance and a firm footstep, and fearlessly ascends 
its summit. Then taking an affectionate leave of her friends 
as she distributes her trinkets among them, she herself applies 
the torch, and clasping her deceased partner in her arms, their 
ashes mingle together. 

But this is not the only fashion of suicide in the East, 
though it be the more frequent and the most encouraged 
there ; for sometimes widows voluntarily inter themselves 
alive with the bodies of their husbands, after similar ceremo- 
nies as those which are practised at cremation. 

Shunning this fiery ordeal would incur disgrace, while 
passing through its torments is believed an unerring guide to 
eternal felicity, and seals the reputation of the victim. But 
above all, it is held a duty which is owing to the wedded state, 
insomuch that, with rare exceptions, concubines are not 
bound to commit themselves to the flames ; and an amicable 
competition has been seen between two surviving widows for 
the privilege of suicide. The duty of perishing is regarded 
as so imperious, that blooming widows refuse to listen to the 
prayers of their desponding kindred, or to escape where pow- 
er would shelter them, and where the cooling affections of the 
-aged cease to urge them to self-immolation for love. They 
put implicit faith in the joys of futurity, and dread the con- 
tumely attending evasion of the sacrifice ; which, independ- 
ently of the warmth of regard for the deceased, are the mo- 
tives influencing Eastern widows as well as those of other 
regions. 



PfLEDON OF PLATO. 199 

Suicide from the sense of inferiority. — Pride and vanity 
whisper illustrious notions of ourselves, and there is scarcely 
any external flattery too gross for our self-love to reject and 
despise. Confidence buoys us up in the belief of properties 
which we neither possess nor are capable of attaining, and 
thence is the means of fostering imperfections. The vehe- 
mence of self-love must be necessarily the source of every 
man's errors ; for he who loves, is blind in respect to the ob- 
ject of his admiration. But a sense of self-unworthiness 
may also originate in the gloomy mind of those who never 
have been deficient in duty, like him in the Scripture, who, in 
spite of having obeyed the divine ordinances from his youth, 
still doubted his chance of penetrating the gates of heaven. 
Forgetting that the pleasures of the world have been devised 
for enjoyment, and that the delicacies of sense and the per- 
ceptions of the soul have been gifted on purpose to relish 
them, weak, vain, and ignorant devotees think of self-pu- 
nishment as a cure for their defects, as if they alone had been 
entitled to come in a state of perfection from the hand of the 
creator. Frequently belief in self-unworthiness is a prelude 
to decided insanity. Mankind, besides this spiritual affection, 
are sometimes liable to that regarding temporal matters, 
which wounds them with painful consciousness of inferiority 
on a comparison with their fellows. The ancients fable a 
soothsayer, who, having found some other augur of superior 
skill and pretensions to himself, died of mortification. 

Among the moderns, various narratives are preserved of 
rivals for excelle nee in the arts having had their imperfec- 
tions forced on their notice by illiberal criticism, or by their 
own observation, so as to embitter their whole existence. 
Many persons, addicted to literature, after once offering fa- 
vourite opinions to the public, and having been warned of 
their precipitation, never could resolve to adventure again. 



200 NOTES TO THE 

Suicide from Indigence. — Notwithstanding the unconquer- 
able violence of the passions, the sense of dishonour, the 
dread of an enemy, disappointed affections, or impatience of 
control, may lead to unreflecting suicide, that resulting 
from simple weariness of life, from melancholy or indigence, 
perhaps is the sequel of long premeditation. The statesman 
never quits the brink of a precipice ; the warrior is always 
opposed to danger ; the philosopher reasons himself in the 
belief that, conceiving death an evil, alone makes it so ; and 
all feeling the uncertainties of their condition, who cannot 
consent to reverses, must be supposed in a certain state of 
readiness for that change which may be effected through the 
medium of their own hands. But is not this a grievous alter- 
native to ihe watchful citizen, the lowly, industrious, and 
willing artizan, who vainly struggles to obtain his own and 
the bread of his dependent family ? Are not the privations 
inseparable from an humble sphere, a sufficient evil in them- 
selves, that the sun shall rise only to light the labourer to his 
toil, and go down with the scanty earnings which are to 
gain his scanty fare ? Yet it is distressing to find that hard" 
ships may become intolerable even to those inured to rigour, 
that disappointments may prove greater than can be borne* 
As indigence urges mankind, they are the more* reluctant 
to disclose the truth in soliciting relief of their necessities. 
Alas ! the remark of the poet is too true, that poverty makes 
men ridiculous. The stratagems to disguise it are infinite. 
Patience and resignation, indeed, conjoined with confidence 
that Providence will not forsake the miserable, counteract 
the strongest inducements to suicide from poverty. Occupa- 
tion, likewise, however inconsiderable, engaging the mind 
for the time, banishes painful reflections and mitigates sor- 
row : and so long as something better may be expected, we 



PHLEDON OF PLATO. 201 

never contemplate any thing worse. The impression con- 
veyed by the surrounding objects, the scenery and its alterna- 
tions, divert our thoughts from the unvaried theme in which 
they are bound up. A greater aggregate of misery is dis- 
seminated proportionally in great capitals than in the coun- 
try ; for those whom indigence approaches, shift their abode 
in hopes of meliorating their fortune ; besides, mankind 
being sustained by each other, and compelled to call in each 
other's aid, promotes an influx to places already populous. 
The inhabitants of cities, too, are concentrated within nar- 
row limits, bringing them under common and reciprocal 
observation : those of the country are widely dispersed. 
Their pride demands a better appearance than is consistent 
with their necessities, and they conclude that their mode of 
life should not seem contemptible in the eyes of their neigh- 
bours ; an unhappy kind of emulation, indeed too generally 
diffused among all classes at the present day. Undoubtedly 
the sense of dishonour is sometimes an ingredient which 
operates even in the suicides of the indigent.. A far greater 
proportion of destitute persons is said to perish in this way 
in Paris than in London. 

Suicide from dishonour. — Sudden indignation, the sense of 
dishonour, and other sentiments awakened from social rela- 
tions, are productive of catastrophes equal to those which 
are consequent on a long train of misery. But this is a prin- 
ciple which, when restricted within rational limits, is of in- 
finite utility in the affairs of mankind ; for those will fly from 
degradation who know their proper place and duties. It is 
the sense of dishonour which alike raises the weapon against 
the person of her who apprehends the violence of man to her 
virtue ; or of the woman whose shame, though from human 
treachery, is betrayed to the world. It is this which induces 
18* 



202 NOTES TO THE 

the suicide of the husband, who feels himself disgraced by the 
conduct of his wife ; and of the mother, who cannot survive 
her daughter's criminality. It is the sense of dishonour 
which arms the commander against himself, whose oversight 
has lost the day; of the statesman who has fallen from his 
glory ; of the magistrate who is wounded by indignity : nay, 
of the gamester, who cannot redeem his engagements ; or of 
him from whom capricious fortune has reft of his all to plunge 
in penury. The sense of dishonour cements the social com, 
pact, and strengthens its integrity. It bids us disdain defi- 
ciency to ourselves in deficiency to our neighbours, and to 
spurn at the envious passion which demeans us to a level 
with the vile. 

Yet may not the sense of dishonour, so laudable in its 
proper exercise and acceptation, be carried to an extent of 
which the rational can hardly approve ? The wicked are 
not in our keeping ; they may overpower us by their strength ; 
they may contrive to steal indignities upon us, treacherously 
to waylay our steps, and brand our fairest name with calumny. 
But are we to take vengeance on ourselves, or hold that we 
are accountable for the deed that is another's, seeing our 
own actions only are within our control ? 

A great many instances could be related of this species of 
suicides ; likewise those from weariness of life, escape from 
punishment and servitude, &c; but in doing so, it would 
swell this note into an undue size, so that it would require 
separate treatise, rather than a note, to give them all at full 
length. 

l\9) There is a pleasant passage to this purpose in the 
second book of his republic. They say, that by virtue of 
these purifications and sacrifices, we are delivered from the 



PKflEDON OF PLATO. 203 

torments of hell ; but if we neglect them, we shall be liable 
to all the horrors of the same. 

(20) The thyrsus was a spear wrapt in vines or ivy, carried 
by the followers of Bacchus. 

(21) This was the imagination of those who denied the 
immortality of the soul. The author of the book of wisdom 
has set them in their true colours. Our life (says he) is but 
a breath ; after death it vanisheth like a vapour, and passes 
like a cloud, or a mist dispersed by the rays of the sun. Then 
he tells us, that those who entertain themselves with such 
language, were not acquainted with the secrets of God, for 
God created man incorruptible, after his own image ; hence 
the hope of the just and good is full of immortality : this 
seems to have been the sentiment of Socrates. 

(22) Plato seems to have levelled this satyrical shaft at 
Aristophanes, who, in his comedy of the Clouds, has charged 
Socrates with amusing himself only with trifles. 

(23) If death did not give rise to life, as life does to death, 
all things would quickly be at an end and tumble into their 
primitive chaos. 

(24) il Endymion, a shepherd, son of iEthlius and Calyce. 
It is said that he required of Jupiter to grant him to be always 
young, and to sleep as much as he would ; whence came the 
proverb of Endymionis somnum dormire, to express a long sleep. 
Diana saw him naked as he slept on mount Latmos, and was 
so struck with his beauty that she came down from heaven 
every night to enjoy his company. Endymion married Chro- 



204 NOTES TO THE 

mia, daughter of Itonus, by whom he had three sons — Paeon, 
Epeus, and iEolus ; and a daughter called Eurydice. The 
fable of Endymion's amours with Diana, or the Moon, arises 
from his knowledge of astronomy ; and as he passed the 
night on some high mountain, to observe the heavenly bodies, 
it has been reported that he was courted by the moon. Some 
suppose that there were two of that name, the son of a king 
of Elis, and the shepherd or astronomer of Caria. The 
people of Heraclea maintained that Endymion died on mount 
Latmos, and the Eleans pretended to show his tomb at Olym- 
pia in Peloponnesus. 

(25) This appears to be the strongest argument Socrates 
makes use of. 

(26) I have corrected this passage by reading ^r) yzvoflo ; for 
without fjLTj it was not sense. 

(27) The Greek exposition is very remarkable ; it turns 
thus, things upon which we have put this stamp, that it is so. 
That is, to distinguish things that have no true existence. 

(28) This is a great panegyric upon Socrates, and yet done 
with that modesty worthy of Plato. 

(29) It would appear from this passage that the Greeks 
were acquainted with the art of embalming as well as the 
Egyptians. 

(30) The Ar gives being routed by the Spartans, with whom 
they waged war for seizing the city of Thyre, cut their hair, 
and swore solemnly never to suffer it to grow till they had 



PHiEDON OF PLATO. 205 

retaken the town that belonged to them ; which happened in 
the 57th Olympiad, when Crcesus was besieged at Sardis. 
Herodot. lib. 1st. 

It was likewise a custom among the Greeks generally to 
cut off their hair at the death of their friends, and throw it 
into their tombs. 

(31) If these are true, I am a great gainer with little trou- 
ble ; if false, I lose nothing ; on the contrary, I have gained 
a great deal : for besides the hope that supported me through 
my afflictions, infirmities, and weaknesses, I have been faith- 
ful, honest, humble, thankful, charitable, sincere, and true ; 
and have only quitted false and contagious pleasures in ex- 
change for real and solid ones. 

M. Pascal, in his article 7th, has enlarged on this point, 
and backed it with a demonstration of infinite force. 

(32) He calls~Cebes another Cadmus, because, as Cadmus, 
by sowing the teeth of the dragon he had killed, fetched out 
of the bosom of the earth a race of fierce men that lived 
only one minute, so Cebes, by the opinion of the mortality of 
the soul, a thing more poisonous than the teeth of a dragon, 
made all men earthly and beastly, and left them but a very 

short life. 

(33) Anaxagoras was the first that said the intellect or 
spirit of God ranked in the parts of matter and put them in 
motion ; and it was that principle that ushered in his 
physics into notice. This fair exordium gave Socrates 
occasion to think that he would explain all the secrets of 
nature by unfolding the divine virtue displayed upon it, and 
assigning the reason why every thing was so and so. But 



206 NOTES TO THE 

that philosopher did not keep up to his first principle ; for he 
waved the first cause, and insisted on second causes, and by 
so doing frustrated the expectations of his readers. 

(34) The wicked would be happy if the soul were mortal. 
This principle has a considerable proof of the immortality of 
the soul couched in it ; for if the soul were mortal, virtue 
would be pernicious to the good, and vice would be service- 
able to the wicked, which is unworthy of God, and by con- 
sequence there must be another life for rewarding the good 
and punishing the bad. 

(35) Socrates does not mention who taught him this doc- 
trine of the pure earth ; but it is not a hard matter to find out 
the author. Proclus himself acknowledges that Socrates and 
Plato owed this idea to the sacred tradition of the- Egyptians 
and Hebrews, 

(36) When they meant to imply the difficulty of a thing, 
they used to say, by way of proverb, that they stood in 
need of Glaucus's art, who, from a man, became a sea-god. 
But those who comment upon this proverb, alledge it was 
made upon another Glaucus, who invented the forging of 
iron ; but I am induced to believe the contrary, by this, that 
the fable of Glaucus, the sea-god, was founded upon his being 
an excellent diver ; to which it is probable Socrates alluded : 
in earnest, if one would visit the earth he speaks of, of which 
ours is only a sediment, he must be a better diver than Glau- 
cus in order to pass the currents and seas that divide them. 
He must raise his thoughts above all earth or material things. 

(37) The greatness of the subject, and the natural weak- 



PH.EDON OF PLATO. 207 

ness of man, are too great occasions of their uncertainty 
with reference to the immortality of the soul. 

He exhorts his friends to survey his arguments more mi- 
nutely after his death, being persuaded that the more they 
dwell upon them, the more they will be convinced of their 
truth. 

(88) There is a great deal of sense in what Socrates here 
tells his friends : he desires them only to take care of them- 
selves, and they will prove good men ; and* being such, will 
do all good offices to his family, although they did not pro- 
mise it : for good men are honest, and take pleasure in doing 
good, and love their neighbours. Whereas, if they negleet 
themselves, notwithstanding all their fair promises, they 
would not be capable to do any thing either for him or them- 
selves. None but the good can be of essential service. How 
great is this truth ! 

(39) Crito's devotion to his master resembles that of Peter's 
to our Saviour, when he declared, although all should forsake 
thee, yet will I not. In like manner Crito exclaimed, most 
beloved master and teacher, how my heart bleeds at the 
thoughts of losing thee. I could find numberless excuses 
to delay the fatal draught that is to separate me and thee 
ever in this world : how I am affected at the thoughts of 
being deprived of him that taught me so much practical 
wisdom, for thou hast been a light unto my feet and a lamp 
unto my path. Ungrateful Athenians for depriving me 
and the world of such a god-like man ; how will mankind in 
future ages execrate your memory for such a foul and mur- 
derous action ! 



208 NOTES TO THE 

(40) Here the reader becomes moved in a manner similar 
to that in the closing scene of a deep tragedy ; in fact, he feels 
himself as one of the spectators of the last moments of So- 
crates, and participates in the same feelings that we suppose 
his disciples must have had at his exit. 

(41) Those who have not penetrated into the true mean- 
ing of Socrates, charge him with idolatry and superstition, 
upon the score of this cock that he had vowed to iEsculapius. 
But these words should not be taken literally ; they are 
enigmatical, as many of Plato's are, and can never be under- 
stood unless we have recourse to figures and allegories. The 
cock here is the symbol of life, and iEsculapius, the emblem of 
physic. Socrates' meaning is, that he resigns his soul into 
the hands of the true physician, who comes to purify and 
heal him. This explication suits admirably well with the 
doctrine taught by Socrates in this same treatise, when he 
shews that religious sacrifices were only figures. Theodoret 
had a juster notion of this passage than Lactantius and 
Tertullian ; for he not only did not condemn it, but insi- 
nuated that it was figurative. In his seventh discourse of the 
cure of the opinions of the Pagans, I am persuaded, says 
he, that Socrates ordered a cock to be sacrificed to iEscula- 
pius, to show the injustice of his condemnation ; for he was 
condemned for acknowledging no God. 

He owned a God, and showed that his God stood in no 
need of our sacrifices or homage, and required nothing of us 
but piety and good works. 

(42) Xenophon, that faithful historian of the actions and 
memorable sayings of Socrates, gives him the same enco- 
mium ; and having said that he was the best man in the 



PfLEDON OF PLATO. 209 

world, and the greatest favourite with God, concludes in 
these words : — And, truly, when I consider the wisdom and 
greatness of soul, so essential to this man, I find it not more 
out of my power to forget him, than to remember and not 
praise him. And if among these who are most studious to 
excel in virtue, there be any who found a person to converse 
with, more proper than Socrates for promoting his design, 
verily, we may well pronounce him the most fortunate of 
mankind. As for myself, knowing him of a truth to be such 
a man as I have described ; so pious towards the gods, as 
never to undertake any thing without having first consulted 
them : so just towards man, as never to do an injury, even 
the very slightest, to any one ; whilst many and great were 
the benefits he conferred on all with whom he had any deal- 
ings : so temperate and chaste, as not to indulge any appetite 
or inclination, at the expense of whatever was modest or 
becoming : so prudent as never to err in judging of good and 
evil ; nor wanting the assistance of others to descriminate 
rightly concerning them ; so able to discourse upon, and 
define with the greatest accuracy not only those things of 
which we have been speaking of, but likewise of every 
other ; and looking as it were into the minds of men, discover 
the very moment for reprehending vice, or stimulating to the 
love of virtue. Experiencing, as I have done, all these excel- 
lencies of Socrates, I can never cease considering him as the 
most virtuous and the most happy of all mankind. But if 
there is any one who is disposed to think otherwise, let him 
go and compare Socrates with any other, and afterwards let 
him determine. 



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